


I can only put so much into words

by MicrosuedeMouse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dialogue prompts, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Light Smut, Prompt Fic, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 10:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 35,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15555609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MicrosuedeMouse/pseuds/MicrosuedeMouse
Summary: Fifty moments in the shared life of Gaby Teller and Illya Kuryakin.Like 'Things You Said,' this is a collection of vignettes based on a prompt list. The scenes are out of order but all belong in a single continuity.





	1. “It’s really not that complicated.”

**Author's Note:**

> [screeching] I've been working on this monster since early april  
> why do I insist on posting things like this only once the entire work is completed? we'll just never know
> 
> anyway here's the Gallya that's been in progress for literally half of 2018 so far. these are based on a list of 50 dialogue prompts from tumblr - look me up @microsuedemouse to see the list itself. the prompts are also used as the chapter titles; you'll notice that some of them were modified somewhat in-story to suit certain characters' speech patterns, Illya's in particular. I also tried to avoid the really obvious interpretations of many of the prompts and go with something a little more unexpected; I hope you enjoy!

Gaby picked up a bishop and stared at it critically, as if it were personally responsible for her difficulty in mastering chess. “What does this one do, again?”

Illya took a deep breath. “You do not _have_ to learn to play chess,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you would prefer to play card games with Cowboy. He is always bragging how good he is at Blackjack.”

“No, I _want_ to learn,” she insisted, frowning. “I just can’t keep track of how they all move. This game has so many rules.” She set the bishop back down, more forcefully than necessary.

“Is really not so complicated,” he told her. Glancing around, he reached for the pen and pad of paper that sat next to the nearby telephone. “Here. Pawn can move two spaces forward on first move, and one space forward after that, or it can capture by moving one space _diagonally_ forward…” He began to draw out little diagrams for her, jotting down the important rules as he went.

Soon she held the completed instructions – which took up a few sheets of paper, because the notepad was so small – in her hands. Glancing through them, she cocked an eyebrow at Illya. “Your penmanship,” she said, “leaves something to be desired.”

He gave her a dirty look at that. “Is my third language, and second alphabet. You would prefer Cyrillic?” he asked. “ _Then_ I think chess would be hard to learn.”

“Napoleon told me you’re some kind of genius at this game,” she said, apparently deciding not to acknowledge his sarcasm. “So why are you so bad at teaching me?”

Illya pressed his hands together and rested his face against them, trying to compose himself. “You do not want to _learn_ ,” he finally answered, opening his eyes to look at her again.

“I do, though!” she argued. “I’m trying!”

“You do not seem to be trying,” he muttered in a low voice. Watching as she lifted her nose in the air, offended, he sighed and said, “Fine. _Why_ do you want to learn? For strategy? As brain exercise? As hobby?”

Gaby simply stared back at him for a moment, as if unwilling to answer. Just as he was about to give up, she said, “Because you’re always playing it.” He furrowed his brow slightly, puzzled, and she went on, “I like… being able to understand you. How you think. You spend so much time on this game, I thought maybe if I learned to play, I could learn more about you.”

He scratched his cheek, considering that. It certainly wasn’t what he’d expected. She was looking away, now, almost like she was embarrassed by the admission and trying to hide it. “Then I am teaching you wrong way,” he told her, and she looked back in surprise. He shrugged. “I have been trying to teach you how to beat opponent, and opponent is me. If you want to learn how _I_ play, I should show you how _I_ beat opponent.” Then he waved her over, patting the spot next to him on the sofa. As she got slowly to her feet, looking equal parts amused and perplexed, he began to return the chess pieces to their starting positions. “You come sit on this side with me, and I will show you how _I_ play game of chess. Cowboy!” The last part was directed at the open doors to the balcony, and Solo leaned in with his eyebrows raised. “Come play chess so Gaby can watch me beat you.”

“Well, how can I say no to an invitation like that?” Solo answered drily, rolling his eyes. But he indulged them, curious what they were up to. Sitting down in the chair Gaby had just vacated, he surveyed the board, then pushed one of his pawns forward.

“First move, is not so important on its own,” Illya explained to Gaby where she sat next to him, reaching out to mirror Solo’s start. “But by third move or so, you can begin to get sense of opponent’s strategy…”


	2. "Close the door."

Gaby had been curled up in her office chair for the last hour, frowning heavily at a Russian textbook in her lap. Reading was the skill she was having the most difficulty picking up and her colleagues were pushing her to keep at it until she was at least conversationally fluent – it was important that her Russian be as sharp as possible when the KGB came by to review UNCLE’s operations next month.

Illya shifted at his desk across the room, stealing another glance in her direction. She’d been growing increasingly frustrated over the last while, and even if she was quiet he could feel it radiating off of her. There was a clatter in the hallway outside of their office and he saw her clench and extend her hands in irritation. She’d insisted on leaving the door open lately, because she was intent on learning to focus on her language skills even through distraction – it was no good, she told them, if she could only speak Russian in the middle of a quiet room. When a group of men walked past, talking loudly amongst themselves (more of Waverly’s peers, most likely), Gaby’s frown deepened, and Illya said, “Close the door.”

She looked up at him in annoyance. “Don’t you want me to learn?” she snapped.

“Of course I do.” Illya put the pen he’d been toying with down on his desk. “You have long way to go before you are fluent. But right now, I can tell you are pushing yourself too hard. Making things worse, not better.” He rose from his seat and crossed the room, pausing to gently pull the door shut on his way past. Then he perched on the edge of her desk and fixed her with a stern look. “You are too stubborn.”

“And you’re rude,” she said primly, lifting her nose. He sighed, in no mood for her irritable games.

“Tell me what is wrong.” He pointed to the book in her lap. “What is causing you trouble? I can help.”

“I don’t want you to do it for me,” Gaby answered, insulted. “I have to _learn_ it.”

“And I do not want to do it for you,” he told her. “I want to _help_ you to learn it. These textbooks are terrible teachers anyway. Better to learn through use.”

She scowled at him for a moment, an impatient little huff escaping her nose, and then uncurled her legs from the seat and leaned forward, handing him the book. “Verb tenses,” she finally said. “I can’t remember which one is which. It makes reading very hard.”

Illya nodded, peering at the book’s unhelpful text and then closing it and putting it aside. “We can work on this.”


	3. "It's three in the morning."

It wasn’t until Illya emerged from the bathroom, about to turn the light back out, that he noticed she was awake. Hand hovering over the switch, he peered at her across the dim hotel room, shifting restlessly in her bed. “Gaby?” he asked softly.

Her only response was a grunt.

By the light behind him, he glanced at his watch. “It is three in the morning.”

“Yes,” she groaned. “I’m all too aware.”

He hesitated, then turned the light off, crossing to her bed. The only light in the room now was what filtered through the wispy curtains. “You are all right?” he asked, with some concern.

She grunted again. “Well, I’m still awake, so I could be better,” she answered irritably.

“I know you do not sleep well,” he admitted, “but this is quite bad, even for you.”

“Mm. Well, normally, if I can’t exhaust myself enough during the day, I just drink myself to sleep. But then Solo made off with all of the alcohol in the damn room, so here I am.” She sat up, and he couldn’t make out her face, but from her posture he had a feeling he was receiving a dirty look.

He sighed, not fond of her drinking habit, but he did understand it. He’d faced insomnia before. “I cannot get you alcohol at this hour. Is there anything else that would help?”

She slumped, groaning again. “I don’t know.”

Illya hesitated, not sure whether he wanted to get into this, but then he gave in and sat carefully on the edge of her mattress, facing her. “Is something weighing on you?” he asked. “Keeping you awake?”

“I don’t think so,” she answered. “I’m _tired_. I’m just not _asleep_.”

“Yes, this is how insomnia works,” he agreed. Once again he suspected she was glaring. More gently, he said, “I want to help.”

“I don’t know,” Gaby sighed. “Maybe if it weren’t so quiet?”

“Perhaps I can turn on the radio?” he suggested.

In the darkness he could just barely make out the movement of her shaking her head. “No. Music usually keeps me awake. Can you just… talk to me for a while?”

Taken aback, he paused. “What about?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Something boring, I suppose.” She scooted forward and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Talk about chess. Or explain that cypher you like again; I never remember it all. Or list details about our mission. I know you memorised the whole brief.”

He afforded her the smallest of laughs, little more than a huff of air out his nose. “None of these are boring,” he said, just a little bit offended. Then, because her bangs were soft on his bicep and he was soft for her, he said, “I will not use these. Instead I will tell you bedtime stories. Like my grandmother used to tell me when I was very small.”

“Russian fairy tales. Perfect,” she muttered. “I’ll be out in moments.”

“You are very rude,” he complained. “I am being helpful to you, at my own expense. Just like the lovely Vasilisa did for her family…”

Illya didn’t get far into his story before he heard Gaby yawn. A moment later, she put her hands on his arm and tugged, leaning back. “You’re very warm,” she murmured. “Come here.” She laid down, and in spite of his uncertainty, he allowed her to haul him down alongside her and pull the covers up over both of them, pressing into his body heat. He looked past her in the direction of his own bed, swallowing and wondering whether this was really a good idea, but she finally seemed to be nearing sleep.

“Keep going,” she mumbled, nudging his chest.

So he sighed and continued the story of Vasilisa next to her ear. He could feel his tongue growing heavy as he talked, and her breathing growing even. By the time he finished the tale she was asleep, and he considered going back to his own bed, but he was three-quarters of the way to sleep himself, so he stayed where he was.


	4. "I should have told you a long time ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm never 100% certain how much I love the 'Illya was watching Gaby for a while before Solo showed up' idea but I felt like it worked really well here. Hope you agree!

“What?” Gaby asked, catching the look Illya tossed her when they finally got back to their room after a long night of rubbing elbows with Portuguese aristocrats.

“You could afford,” he suggested carefully, “to be a bit less… aggressive.” He arched an eyebrow at her as he removed his evening jacket and turned to hang it up in the small closet. She had cornered the drunken son of some dignitary or other and spent the evening grilling him for information under threat of revealing his extensive infidelity to his strait-laced family.

She scoffed. “This is what you and Solo have taught me,” she said casually, inspecting her nails as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

He wasn’t buying it. “You have always been this way,” he told her with a roll of his eyes, removing his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. He didn’t mind dressing up for a job, but once he was back in his own space he always seemed antsy to escape the restrictive formal clothes. “We did not make you into pit bull.”

Gaby frowned, apparently electing to ignore the comparison. “How would _you_ know, anyway?”

Suddenly Illya came to a halt, halfway through rolling up one of his sleeves, facing away from her. Taken aback, she watched him for a moment. “Illya?” she asked in a smaller, gentler voice, when he didn’t do anything else.

“I… should have told you, long time ago,” he said, slowly turning to face her. He looked a little guilty, and she sat back, confused.

“Should have told me what?”

He cleared his throat and finished rolling up his sleeve, looking down at the floor. “In Berlin,” he said, dropping his hands into his trouser pockets. “I… I had been watching you for a while, before Cowboy got to you.”

She leaned back against her arms, absorbing this new information for a moment. “How long is a while?” she asked.

“Mm. Week and a half, maybe.” He wasn’t meeting her eye. “KGB intelligence believed CIA agent was entering East Berlin to extract someone of value. We had a few possible targets under surveillance. I was assigned to you.”

Gaby tipped her head to one side and simply watched him, until finally he raised his gaze just enough to check on her. When their eyes met, she smiled slightly – a little mischievously, as was so often the case – and asked, “What did you learn?”

He considered that for a moment, evidently surprised by the question. “You were not what I had expected, having read your file,” he admitted after a moment. “Graceful, yes, this lines up with your history in ballet – but also… loud. Bullheaded. Foul-mouthed.” A pause. “So I thought, maybe cold, having lost two families. Maybe only angry. But no – you were assertive, but kind. Stubborn, but warm. You cared for your fellow mechanics, for your neighbourhood children. Even for stray cats.” He shrugged, glancing down again. “I was more accustomed to surveillance on other agents – nobody like you. You were not as… simple as I anticipated.”

She was smiling now. Pushing herself off the bed, she crossed the room towards him, slipping her hands under his arms and around his middle. “What a softie,” she teased, grinning up into his face. He tried to suppress a smile of his own, looking away. “I wish you _had_ told me sooner. Now I’m trying to remember everything about my last days in Berlin, looking for signs that you were there. I suppose you hid yourself well, though.”

“There was once–” Then he seemed to think better of it, stopping.

“What?” she asked, reaching up to turn his face back to hers.

“You were walking home very late after work, one night,” Illya said after a moment’s hesitation. “While the engine of your car was still in repairs. You were being followed.” He sighed, almost as if embarrassed of himself. “Two men. Very… ah… _disreputable_ -looking men. After they followed you several blocks I stepped in and took care of them. Out of your sight, of course.” His eyes were fixed on the carpet somewhere past her right shoulder. He _was_ embarrassed!

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “That was _you._ ”

“Ah.” His gaze flicked back to hers, confused. “What?”

“I remember that night!” Gaby said, looking equal parts delighted and amazed with the sudden epiphany. “I knew I was being followed, I saw them! I put my hand in my bag and got a good grip on a big wrench, then went around a corner and stopped, intending to confront them when they came round. But then they never arrived – when I looked back, they were just _gone_.”

“Oh,” he said, even more thrown off now. Then, “You carry a wrench in your purse?”

“Sometimes,” she answered. “But never mind _that_ – Illya, you saved me! Before we even _met!_ ” She beamed at him, and he reddened under her gaze. Biting her lip, she leaned in against his chest. “Look at you… I _knew_ you liked me too much for a man who had only just met me, that first day in Rome.”

Illya flushed and looked up over her head. “Nonsense,” he mumbled, unconvincingly. “You misunderstand me completely.”

But Gaby only pulled on his shirt collar and kissed his neck until he crumbled, succumbing gladly to temptation.


	5. "Why are you helping me?"

“Peril.”

“Cowboy.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking.” Solo took a seat on the stool next to Illya’s at the hotel bar, turning to face into the room and lean luxuriously back against the counter.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Illya answered, earning an unimpressed look from his American colleague.

“Gaby’s not all that fond of her mark this time around,” Solo continued, looking back into the crowd. “But he’s a little _too_ fond of her. Frankly, the man’s a dead end as far as our job goes – he doesn’t know a damn thing, except how to leer. Given your own cover’s reputation as a bit overly noble, I don’t think it would be at all out of character for you to swoop in there and rescue her the next time Garrison gets handsy. Think about it – you can sweep her away, offer the fair young lady a coffee and a ride home safe. The two of you get to get out of here and spend the evening somewhere together, while _I_ stay here and work _our_ mark. He trusts me five times more without you, anyway.”

Illya turned to look at Solo with a frown, equal parts confused and suspicious. “Why?” he finally asked.

“I kind of thought I made it obvious,” Solo answered, lifting his eyebrows. “Gaby gets away from Garrison, you get some time alone with Gaby – plus the brownie points that come with _having gotten her away from Garrison_ – and I get to maybe make progress on the case.” He flourished one hand in front of him. “A win-win-win.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed even further. “…Why are you helping me?” There was no point in arguing with Solo over whether he _wanted_ time alone with Gaby; Solo was quite convinced.

Solo rolled his eyes. “Because you two are becoming difficult to be around,” he answered. “I’m tired of sitting through it – the pining, the flirting, the dancing around it all the time. Believe me, Peril, all _three_ of us would feel better if you made a move.”

Illya frowned a moment longer, then turned back to his glass. “Is not so simple,” he said in a low voice.

Before Solo could answer, there was a squawk somewhere across the room. Illya reacted even faster than Solo did, leaping to his feet and looking straight towards Gaby, who was standing next to her mark, face flushed and arms crossed protectively over her breast. “ _Sir…!_ ” she was crying in alarm, and the man was grinning horribly. And then Illya was gone, barrelling through the crowd like a human wrecking ball.

“Then again,” Solo said to himself, smirking as he finished Illya’s drink.


	6. "You have to leave right now."

“Aw, Peril,” Solo said, grinning impishly as he took in the lit candles, the nice table linens. Folding his coat over one arm, he idly inspected the label on the wine. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I did not,” Illya answered darkly, poking his head out from the kitchen. He was drying his hands on a dishtowel and, much like Solo always did, wearing an apron to cook. “This is none of your business. You should go.”

“Oh, but I just arrived!” Solo protested, his teeth so irritatingly white as his smile grew larger. “And I have _so_ many more questions than I did a few minutes ago.”

“So do I,” Illya responded flatly. “Such as, why are you here? And why are you not busy with mission? And if you must divert attention from mission, why visit _me_ and not some _lady friend?_ ” He muttered something in Russian afterwards, and Solo wasn’t entirely certain, but he was fairly sure it was along the lines of “ _Today, of all days_.”

“My contact fell through,” Solo said, his tone light as he wiped one fingertip across a plate, cleaning away an invisible speck of dust. “So my evening suddenly freed up, and I thought I’d come back early and see what you were getting up to in my absence.” His discovery certainly didn’t disappoint – no matter what came after this, he had material to hold over Illya’s head for _weeks_.

“Nothing.” Illya was growing more irritated by the second, and Solo was reveling in it. “But you should extend your absence nonetheless.”

“I don’t know, Peril,” Solo said. “I didn’t get much to eat while I was out, and whatever you’re working on in there actually smells _quite_ palatable.”

“Did not make enough for you,” Illya told him. “You will have to go back out.”

Before Solo could provoke him any further, there was a dull thud in the next room, where Gaby had been laying on the couch when Solo left. Both men stood still for a second. “Gaby? You are all right?” Illya called out, after a quiet second or two.

Solo wondered if he could hear her swearing softly. “Yes, Illya, I’m fine,” she answered after another moment, and Solo recognised the tone of someone who had fallen asleep unintentionally and then been rudely awakened when she fell off the sofa. Specific, perhaps, but he knew his partners well. “Hungry, though.”

“Dinner is almost ready,” Illya told her. Then, lowering his voice as he turned back to Solo, he said, “You have to leave right now.”

“Leave?” Solo asked, pretending to be more affronted than he was. “This is our safehouse, Peril. Where am I supposed to go?”

“Anywhere,” Illya answered, through gritted teeth. “Bar. Brothel. Go sit on front step all night. I do not care. Just leave.”

Gaby arrived in the doorway between the small dining room and the sitting room where she’d been napping, her hair mussed and her arms stretched high over her head as she tried to wake up. She looked at the table for a moment, then noticed Solo standing next to it. “Oh. Napoleon. Hello,” she said slowly, a puzzled frown settling between her brows.

Solo looked from her up to Illya, who was still glaring at him, but there was a hint of desperation behind it now. He weighed his options briefly, then shot Gaby a harmless smile. “Just dropped in to grab some more cash. I’m going down to the pier, but as it turns out, all I seem to have left in my wallet is some drachmas, and a few stray pesos.” With a little sleight of hand, he waved a handful of location-appropriate bills before beginning to turn around. “And now I’ll be on my way again. Enjoy your dinner.” As he turned, he gave Illya a subtle wink. The Russian tried to scowl, but it was hard to do when he was also relieved and a little grateful.

As Solo slipped out, he heard Gaby say through a yawn, “That smells _wonderful_ , Illya.”


	7. "Just trust me."

Gaby was in one of her _moods_.

Solo watched carefully from his seat on the divan, peering over the edge of his magazine as she charged back and forth across their Madrid hotel room with much too heavy a step. He wasn’t sure exactly what had set her off – he couldn’t convince her to talk to him – only that it had something to do with Illya. What the _hell_ had Peril done this time? Missed another one of her obvious invitations for a kiss? Not unlikely, the way they’d been going on lately.

These two were infuriating. _Honestly_. He’d never met anyone so stubborn or moody in all his life, and now here he was, tethered to the both of them for the foreseeable future.

“You’re going to break a glass like that, one of these days,” he commented mildly after she slammed an empty tumbler down on the sideboard.

Gaby gave him a withering look, and he sighed and flipped his magazine shut. Evidently it was going to be one of _those_ days.

“Even _I_ don’t think he deserves this degree of ire,” Solo said, getting to his feet and tucking his hands into his pockets.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered airily, not even deigning to meet his eye.

“For pity’s sake, Gabs,” he complained, rolling his eyes. “This is all a bit much. What did he do? Nothing, again, I’m assuming. That’s just how he _is_. There’s no rule that says he _has_ to make the first move. You’re a modern woman. Just take things into your own hands. At this point, I think it would be healthier for _both_ of you.”

She shrugged, crossing the room again towards the open suitcase next to her bed. Rummaging through her things like he hadn’t even said a word, she muttered, “If that man would prefer to be heartless, far be it from me to argue.”

“Heartless? Really?” Solo resisted the urge to roll his eyes a second time. She was being truly ridiculous. “I’ve never seen a man with _more_ heart. Just because he tries to keep it locked up in an iron cage… I mean, _god_ , Gaby, he cares so much about _everything_ – and have you _seen_ the way he looks at you? Heard the way he talks to you, or about you? He cares even more about you than everything else put together.”

She scoffed, tossing aside a blouse with disdain. It was one that Illya had picked for her, Solo observed. “I very much doubt it.” This wasn’t just moody – she was genuinely very upset at this point, he realised. “He barely knows how to _feel_ emotions, much less how to _show_ them. Anyone who cared for me would have _acted_ on it by this point.”

They had gotten worse lately – it was hard for Solo not to notice. They were less patient with each other, more likely to fight, and in worse moods in general whether they were together or apart. He had a feeling this dance of theirs had maybe drawn out just a little too long, and they were now approaching the proverbial ‘shit or get off the pot’ moment. “You _know_ that’s not true,” he admonished her, impatient with her attitude. “Peril’s human like the rest of us, hard as it may be to believe. And _you_ , my dear, are the centre of that man’s little Russian universe.”

“What do you know, anyway,” she snarked into her suitcase, her voice low – but not low enough that he couldn’t hear her.

“You have this strange idea that I don’t know anything about love just because I don’t much care for long-term commitments,” he commented drily.

Finally Gaby straightened up and turned to face him again, eyes narrowed and hands on her hips, but she remained silent.

He sighed. “Just trust me,” he said quietly.

She stared at him a few moments longer, angry and silent and reasonably intimidating for a woman so small, before finally looking away with a sneer. “I trust you about as far as I can throw you,” she muttered derisively.

“Fine,” Solo said, throwing up his hands. “I don’t need you to _admit_ that I’m right for me to _know_ that I’m right. We have a party to attend, so get yourself cleaned up. And be prepared to _behave_.” He shook his head as he turned away, tired of this nonsense.

Later that evening, when she slipped away from his side and out the door leading to the roof, he sent Illya after her.


	8. "I've been waiting a long time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is for diadema/Shannon because she loves Waverly so much and I always think of her when I write him)

Illya shut the door of Waverly’s office quietly behind him, and then he and Gaby sat down in the chairs facing their boss’s desk. Waverly folded his hands on the desktop and smiled mildly at them. “Well, you now have my undivided attention. What can I do for you?”

Illya glanced at Gaby, and she crossed her legs and sat up straight, her posture already assertive. “Sir, there’s something we thought it was time we share with you.” Her words were careful; it seemed like they had planned their approach. Waverly nodded slightly, raising his eyebrows in anticipation, and Gaby reached for Illya’s hand. “We’ve been seeing each other. For over a year now. Quite seriously.”

Waverly watched expectantly for a moment, in case there was any more to come, and then he sighed and lifted his hands. “I’ve been waiting a long time,” he answered, steepling his fingers in front of his face. Seeing Gaby narrow her eyes slightly, he continued, “For you to say something, I mean. Or at least somehow acknowledge your relationship in front of me. I… surely you _knew_ that I _knew_ , didn’t you?” His sarcasm was as understated as usual, but his tone clearly communicated that he’d been growing tired of the pretense.

Gaby and Illya shared a quick look, slightly amused, and his hand tightened around hers. “Well,” Illya said, leaning forward slightly, “We are bringing it up now because we have decided to get married, and we wish to invite you to our wedding. You have been good leader and mentor to us both. But,” he added, his tone losing some of its lightness, “We also wish to make clear that we cannot be made to change our minds on this matter. We will be married regardless of whether UNCLE intends to allow it.”

Waverly wouldn’t dream of stopping them – only a madman would get between Illya and Gaby – but instead of saying so, he sputtered, “ _Allow_ it? Good god, man, do you take me for an amateur? If we really decided this marriage couldn’t happen, there wouldn’t be a damn thing you could do about it. You could disappear without a word tonight, pick any day and any place on this earth for your ceremony, and I’d be there whether you liked it or not.” The way he smiled while he said it made clear what his answer was to their invitation.

Gaby tried not to laugh. “Good,” she said. “Our follow-up question, then, is would you be willing to officiate? Because if you won’t, we’ll have to figure out someone else who can do it.”

Waverly pinched the bridge of his nose. They really were just making up this whole plan on the fly and trusting things to fall into place. Had he fostered this overconfidence in them? “Good lord,” he muttered, laughing even as he shook his head. “Yes, I can. As a civil officer I am qualified to perform that duty.” He fixed them with another look, half-amused and half-tired, and then leaned forward a little further. “And I’d be glad to,” he added in a lower voice, a little conspiratorially.


	9. "You're in love with her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this instalment has perhaps my favourite pair of lines I've ever written about Solo. can you spot them?

It wasn’t long after Rome that Solo figured it out. He only had to watch Illya and Gaby dance around each other for a day or two, uncertain how to navigate the discovery that they were now partners for the longer term, before he started to catch on. And all right, yes, once everyone had their feet safely under them once again, he still enjoyed having his fun with them – saying things specifically to get them riled up, leaving, and then reinserting himself before anything could happen. For a while he really just wanted to see how far he could push. He couldn’t help it; he was the kind of man who, faced with a bear, liked to prod it with a stick. Mischievous with, perhaps, the mildest of self-destructive streaks.

But as time wore on, they never seemed to get anywhere. And he really started to get a sense for how deep this ran. As a man who had no trouble making moves, he could see Illya deliberately holding himself back. And Gaby just… waiting.

And he wasn’t too self-absorbed to make sense of that. There was only one real reason that two people who wanted each other that badly would hesitate for so long.

“You’re in love with her.” It was a simple statement, late one warm evening, over drinks. He didn’t even meet Illya’s eye – just stared out into the final orange traces of the sunset, letting his words hang in the air.

The silence drew out so long he began to think the Russian wasn’t going to answer him. Then, finally, “What would you know about that, Cowboy?”

“More than you give me credit for, I think, Peril,” Solo answered, amused by the response. He glanced across the balcony at his drinking companion, who was staring into his tumbler. “I just wondered if you’d admitted it to yourself yet, or if you were in denial.”

Illya was quiet again, licking his lips as he thought. He swirled the glass very slowly in his hand, sliding the single whiskey rock in the bottom around the round perimeter. “I do not think it makes a difference.”

Solo scoffed. “Of course it makes a difference,” he answered. “I thought it was just sexual tension at first. I really did. But it’s a great deal more than that. And Peril, I hope you know I’m not liable to give you genuine advice very often, but that’s something you ought to act on. Gaby’s not the sort to wait forever, and she’s _certainly_ not the kind of girl you want to miss out on.”

Finally Illya met Solo’s eye, frowning slightly. He downed the last of his drink, and then said, “I do not know what qualifies you to comment on this.”

“Being in a room with the two of you,” Solo said, rolling his eyes slightly. “Once would be enough. But no, I spend damn near my whole life with you two now. Neither of you are subtle.”

Illya placed his tumbler on the table between them, glass clicking against glass. “Good night, Cowboy,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Don’t say I never tried to tell you,” Solo called after him as he left.


	10. "Come here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter we catch a glimpse of Courtney's obsession with the fact that no one in movies or tv ever actually picks a lock correctly

“Illya, hurry up,” Gaby hissed from a few feet away, never a fan of being put on lookout.

“This is really more Cowboy’s area of expertise,” he answered through gritted teeth. He was kneeling in front of a closed door, pick and torsion wrench jammed into the lock, struggling to press the pins into place. The last one was sticky.

“You’re out of time,” she told him abruptly, slipping back from the corner. Around the bend in the dim hallway, the patrolling guards had just come into view. The hall came to a dead end not far past Illya’s door – their exit strategy had depended on being able to get into that room before the guards arrived. Searching the hall for a solution that didn’t involve Illya’s fists, Gaby spotted an alcove near the end, housing a pretentious bust of one of the museum’s founders. “Come here,” she muttered, grabbing his shoulder and hauling on it as she hurried past. Startled, he half-lost his balance, then scrambled to his feet and followed after, his sleeve still firmly clenched in her fist.

The alcove was bigger than it needed to be for the bust and its pedestal, so Gaby had no trouble dragging Illya in after her, pulling him close. Up on her tiptoes, she mussed his hair, then yanked her own halfway out of its neat up-do. They could hear the guards approaching the corner, so when she glanced up and caught his puzzled expression, she put a finger to her lips before looking back down to move his hands to her waist. For a final touch she unbuttoned his jacket and slipped her own hands inside.

As footsteps and flashlights rounded the corner in the hallway, Gaby looked up again, because it somehow seemed natural to make eye contact with her co-conspirator while hiding – and the way he was looking at her stopped her from taking another breath. She had him pressed so close to her, and her hands on the warmth of his chest, and he was gazing so _intently_ at her, like he did sometimes. Like she was the only thing he could see; like she was the only thing he’d _ever_ seen.

And then all of a sudden he was kissing her. For a precious moment it was the only thing in the world. One of Illya’s hands slid around to rest on her lower back, just above the curve of her ass, while the other came up to tangle in her hair and rest against the cool stones of the wall he was pressing her into. No time wasted, she felt his tongue against her lip and responded gladly. She hadn’t been planning to actually kiss him, only pretend she’d been kissing him if and when they got caught – but this was everything she had hoped kissing Illya would be.

It only lasted a few scant, breathless seconds before the flashlight beams hit the tiled floor near their feet and they were forced to break apart. For the briefest moment they only stared at each other, and there was so much in his eyes, and she could feel his heart racing under her right hand. Then the light came right into the alcove and one of the guards barked, “What are you doing here? This hall is off-limits!”

Gaby, her knees still weak, swallowed hard and turned to the guards, giggling in embarrassment. “Sorry,” she said, biting her lip and making a passing attempt to fix her hair. “We were just looking for a private spot, and I think we got a little turned around…”

“Come on. Out,” the guard answered impatiently, jerking with his flashlight. Gaby slipped awkwardly into the hallway, Illya behind her, pretending to be shamed into silence. The guards exchanged a glance and the smaller one sighed and nodded.

“I’ll escort them back to the benefit,” he said. As they headed back down the hall, Gaby managed to time a convincing stumble just so and yank Illya’s pick and wrench out of the lock, slipping them into her clutch. She wanted to tease him for the sloppy work, leaving them behind, but then she remembered it was she who had dragged him unexpectedly away from his work.

The smaller guard led them back towards the party they’d ‘wandered away’ from, Gaby keeping up the charade by hanging off of Illya’s arm and feigning sheepishness. Illya was quiet, but as they rounded the last turn and stepped into the light of the party, she saw that his cheeks were flushed.

“You two stay here, now,” the guard admonished as he waved them past the ropes at the mouth of the hallway. “These are here to keep you inside the exhibition hall. We catch you out here again, you’ll be removed from the building.”

“Thanks for walking us back,” Gaby said sweetly. “So sorry about that.” He nodded curtly, looking tired, and turned to go back to his partner.

Slipping quietly back into the crowd, Gaby looked up at Illya’s face, wondering if there was something she could say. Her heart was still pounding. Then he cast her a quick frown as he re-buttoned his jacket and fixed his hair. “You have to commit to cover,” he said quietly, by way of explanation for the kiss, and then turned away to accept the champagne a caterer was offering him. He waited while she quickly fixed her own hair as well, then handed her a glass, and they returned to the events of the evening, both already trying to figure out how to give that locked office a second try.


	11. "We could get arrested for this."

“We should go back.”

Gaby tossed him a disgusted look. “To that dingy little motel? It’s too hot to even think about,” she told him, waving a hand. “Come on. There’s a perfectly good lake right here.” She set off towards the dock, not waiting for him.

He followed her through the dark, frowning. “Gaby, the beach is _closed_ overnight.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, turning to face him as she toed off her shoes. “I forgot. We never go anywhere we shouldn’t.”

There was enough moonlight that Illya assumed she could see his scowl. Then he registered that she was unbuttoning the front of her blouse, and he raised a hand in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” she asked, grinning. “I thought I’d go swimming before we head home. To cool off. What does Napoleon call it? – Skinny dipping.”

“Absolutely not,” he answered, increasingly concerned. “We– we could get arrested for this.”

She shrugged, the loose blouse falling off one shoulder, and he looked away in embarrassment. “Waverly would get us out of it.”

“He wouldn’t be _impressed_ about it,” Illya assured her, working valiantly to keep his gaze averted. He heard the zipper of her skirt go down and coughed. “Gaby… trespassing… public indecency…”

“Illya, suck it up.”

“ _Please_ ,” he nearly begged, just barely managing not to choke on it. “This is– this is completely inappropriate. You should not undress like this in front of a colleague–”

“You’re such a prude,” she sighed, piling her jewelry neatly on top of her blouse on the dock. “Fine. A compromise. I’ll just swim like this.” And then Illya heard a splash and looked down instinctively – she’d jumped into the water in her underclothes. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see them, under the water, although he was certainly under the impression that they were expensive and now most likely ruined.

Irritated and uncertain what to do, he simply crossed his arms and stared out over the lake.

“Are you joining me or not?” she asked, paddling around for a moment. “The water’s lovely. And you can’t tell me you didn’t overheat all day, wearing that dull sports jacket.”

He grunted.

Gaby sighed and swam off, but before long she was back to pester him further. It was no fun to swim alone, she told him – not to mention considerably less safe, probably. But he was steadfast in his refusal, clearly uncomfortable with the situation and trying not even to look at her.

Merciless, she splashed his legs, and he looked down with a frown as the lakewater soaking into his good trousers. “Come into the water,” she suggested sweetly, “and I won’t tell Napoleon about that little mistake you made this afternoon.”

Finally Illya looked at her, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would,” she answered, smiling broadly. Anything to get what she wanted out of the giant.  She splashed at him again.

He peered at her for a long moment. “No loopholes. No cheating,” he said, finally. “If I come in, you tell _nobody_ about what happened this afternoon.”

“You have my word,” Gaby promised, placing one hand over her heart and holding the other in the air. “I won’t tell a soul.” When he shucked the jacket in response, she nearly _crowed_ with joy.

Once again he couldn’t quite meet her eye – grouchy and embarrassed as he stripped down to his briefs and undershirt and then executed what she judged to be a beautiful dive off the end of the dock. She swam out to meet him, grinning. “See? I told you it was nice.”

Illya looked away towards the moon, and she thought she caught a tinge of red in his complexion. “Fifteen minutes,” he grumbled. “Then we go.”

“Oh, fine,” she agreed, rolling her eyes. “You’re so boring.”


	12. "What are you thinking about?"

Illya knew that he was the one more likely to get lost in deep thought, of the two of them. He did it often. It never used to be a problem, because all the time he spent not working he was also alone – but now that he was rarely alone, his strange, detached moments could be an inconvenience. He only had so much time to spend with Gaby, just the two of them, and they both wanted him to be present for it.

That said, sometimes she got lost, too. He’d find her drink in hand, staring into the fireplace, or else leaning on the balcony railing and gazing into the distant sky. He always wondered what was on her mind on those quiet evenings. She knew enough about his past now to at least guess at what he was revisiting when he disappeared from himself, but he was never sure what it was that she disappeared into like that.

They were spending a rare night in their flat in London – nominally hers, but neither of them really had anything to themselves anymore; everything was shared, was _theirs_ – when he woke up on the couch, having dozed off with his book on his chest. Last he remembered, she’d been sitting on the armchair nearby, a magazine in one hand and her other hand in his hair. He sat up and looked around, wondering where she’d gone.

She was sitting in the tiny window seat across the room, an empty glass in her hands, staring out at the moon. Illya put his book aside and got to his feet, approaching her softly. When she didn’t really react, he sat down on the floor next to the window seat, one shoulder against the wall near her feet, facing her. “What are you thinking about?” he asked softly.

He knew Gaby knew he was there – from the way her fingers tightened around the glass for a moment, if nothing else – but for a moment she didn’t respond. Trying to draw her out to speak to him, he reached up and took one of her bare feet in his hands, pulling it off the seat. He kissed the inside of her ankle gently and then began to rub her foot, knowing she always appreciated it.

“Speak to me, Little Chop Shop Girl,” he encouraged, watching her posture soften a little in response to the foot rub she was receiving.

“Berlin,” she finally murmured, without taking her eyes from the window. The prefix of _East_ didn’t need to be stated. “And fathers, and uncles, and how strange life is. And a man who chased me all the way to the wall, tried to keep me from crossing it – how proud I’d felt when I thought I’d escaped him, only to have him trap me another way entirely.”

Illya paused. “Do you feel trapped?” he asked, brows knitted in concern.

Finally she looked at him, smiling tenderly. “No. Of course not,” she assured him, and he resumed his foot massage, albeit slowly. “I just mean… Neither of us could ever have seen this coming. But here we are. In London, in love, after the world brought us together in the strangest way. About how you and Napoleon killed an uncle I once loved very dearly, and I’m not even angry at you for it; and how now we have become the UNCLE.”

“We did not kill him on purpose,” he reminded her sheepishly.

“I know,” she answered, looking almost amused.


	13. "I thought you were dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the first one in the collection that I wrote? One of the first, anyway. I did go with the obvious meaning from the prompt, but it was too much for me to resist.

If anyone was supposed to prevent him from reaching her hospital room, they clearly didn’t dare. Six and a half feet of stormy-eyed KGB agent, built like brick and jogging through the halls with single-minded determination. He was barely breathing – had barely breathed in the thirty-nine minutes since Waverly had called him. When he found the door he burst in, his chest tight, ignoring the cluster of doctors standing nearby.

“Gaby,” he breathed, seeing her laying there in the bed. She looked up and saw his eyes immediately filling with tears.

“Oh, Illya,” she responded, her heart breaking to realize exactly how frightened he had been.

The door swung shut behind him as he crossed the room to her in only a couple long strides. Overwhelmed, he sank to his knees next to the bed, gripping her hand in both of his and dipping his head to kiss her fingers. Drawing a long, shaky breath, he managed to say quietly, “Three days, Gaby. Three _days_. I… I thought you were dead.” His voice was full of grief.

This hurt more than anything she’d been through in the last three days. With her free hand, she reached for his chin, turning his face up towards her own. He was crying. “Illya, no. I’ll always come home to you. You _saved_ me.”

“But I _didn’t_ ,” he said, and it was clear that not being able to find her had shaken him to his core. “I didn’t– I _couldn’t_ –”

“But you _did_ ,” Gaby insisted. “Just the thought of you. Knowing I had you to return to gave me the strength to survive, to escape. I made it because of you.” Her hand still on his jaw, she tugged, gently but urgently. There was hair beneath her fingers; clearly he hadn’t shaved since she disappeared.

Understanding what she wanted, Illya levered himself against the mattress to get back to his feet and then sit next to her, leaning down and kissing her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and caught her fingers in his hair, pulling him in like she couldn’t get close enough; by contrast, he touched her so carefully, hyperaware of every bruise, cut, and stitch the hospital gown revealed. He was still crying when they finally broke apart for air, and he pressed his forehead against hers. She couldn’t tell if the heavy breathing was more from the intensity of the kiss or his attempts to pull himself together, but she kept her hold on him, never wanting to be separated again now that they were back together.

“I need you,” he told her, his voice small and broken, as one of his hands moved from her pillow to cup her neck ever so gently. “This– this can never happen again.”

“I promise,” she answered without hesitation. Now she was crying too; he was getting to her. “You have me, Illya. You’ll always have me.”

For a moment they just stayed there silently, holding each other close, letting it all wash over them. Gaby drew Illya back in to kiss her again, and he did, and like always she found herself awash in his love and his passion and his dedication. No one had ever made her feel as needed as he did.

They were interrupted when the door burst open a second time. “ _Gaby_ ,” Napoleon cried, looking as haggard and sleep-deprived as Illya. “We thought you were _dead_.”


	14. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

“You know,” Solo said conversationally, “as long as I may have waited for you two to come together, we really have reached a point by now that it’s _almost_ off-putting to watch you climb into his lap like that.”

They were snowed in at the chalet and unlikely to be getting out any time before late the next afternoon, effectively putting the mission on hold. The three of them gathered in Gaby and Illya’s room, since Waverly had instructed them to be on standby for more information, but it was the middle of the night now and they really didn’t expect to hear anything. Taking it as a signal to relax for a few hours, Gaby had poured herself a drink – “to warm me up” – and, having finished that, thoroughly interrupted Illya in his reading by throwing one leg over both of his and sidling up against his chest.

Now she was tossing Solo a dirty look over her shoulder, and Illya tipped his head to one side to do the same. “Yes, you poor thing, having to _wait so long_ ,” Gaby said, rolling her eyes.

“Especially since you did so much to expedite process,” Illya grumbled.

Solo sighed heavily, frowning. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” he complained. “It’s been over a year. Honestly.”

“No,” Illya said simply. “We are not.” He wrapped his arms around Gaby’s waist.

“Do you know how much easier things would have been without you in the way?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Solo sighed again, tipping his head back. “Fine!” he huffed. “I get it! She’d have a real ring on her finger by now if I hadn’t walked in so many times. _Fine_.”

“Oh, actually,” Gaby said thoughtfully, glancing at Illya. “On that note.” Twisting in place, she extended her hand out towards Solo where he sat opposite them.

Looking back up, he glanced obligingly at her hand and then blinked, hard, as if he didn’t believe what he was looking at. “Oh my god,” he said finally, staring. He glanced up to their faces – Illya’s barely-concealed smugness, Gaby’s open amusement. “Oh my god,” he repeated. “You–” He paused again, biting down on what was undoubtedly an insult. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Gaby snorted as Illya leaned his head against her shoulder, laughing. “You’ve been awfully preoccupied with the mark’s nanny, _Dummkopf_ ,” she said. “Otherwise you’d have noticed by now. We gave you a few days, you know.”

Solo raised his eyebrows, stunned and apparently trying to decide whether he believed her or not. “Wow,” he said finally, offended. “ _Wow_. I can’t… Maybe I won’t even _come_ to your wedding.” He rustled his newspaper, still shaking his head as he returned his attention to the article he’d been reading earlier. “Good god. And they call themselves my _partners_ ,” he added under his breath.

“Mm. Fine by us,” Illya responded, smiling as Gaby turned back to him. They were both enjoying this too much. They _had_ waited to see if he’d notice the ring on his own, but this way might have been even better. He’d handed them such a perfect opportunity.

Solo frowned again, peering at them over the top of his paper. Gaby was up on her knees, hands on Illya’s shoulders, peppering him with kisses; he was looking up at her in utter adoration. This time Solo _was_ a little disgusted with their absolute bliss. “Fine.” He huffed. “I’ll be at that wedding whether you want me there or not.”

“That’s what we thought,” Gaby answered, not looking back at him this time. Illya couldn’t help returning her grin. “We will let you know when we’ve chosen a date.”


	15. "Was that supposed to hurt?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the temptation to have Gaby try to punch Illya was very strong, but I thought it was too obvious. decided to change the emphasis instead, which in turn led to a scene that's... rather on the angsty end of things. oops! but I still like the end product, so I hope you do too.
> 
> also! I don't know why, but I always headcanon Solo as having the most medical experience/expertise of the three of them, which def comes out in this scene. in my head, his comment about having training harks back to his time in the war, where he spent some time kind of semi-working as a field medic/extra set of hands for their doctors when the help was sorely needed. he had to learn a lot on the fly and in combination with his tendency to pick up new skills quickly, it resulted in him being overall pretty competent when it comes to treating field injuries.

Gaby was stretched out on the floor with her head in Illya’s lap, and she absolutely wanted to be enjoying it more than she was, but unfortunately she was rather preoccupied with the considerable pain in her shoulder, her hip, and her ankle. Less than forty minutes ago she’d been shoved down a long flight of stone stairs, and her only comfort now was that the Serbian mercenary responsible had been quite thoroughly dispatched by her Russian partner. Napoleon had made it to her first, reassuring her that he would have taken care of the enemy himself if Illya hadn’t beaten him to it. Now his large hands were wrapped around her calf as he tried to sort out what the damage was.

“Keep her still, Peril. I don’t think there are any fractures, but I don’t want to risk anything.”

Illya didn’t need to be told twice. He hadn’t even needed to be told once, frankly. Only seconds after Napoleon, he had come crashing wild-eyed down the steps to see her, his knees hitting the floor next to her head with a crack that sounded painful. He’d pulled her into his lap without a thought, one hand firm on her good shoulder and the other gentle on her head. Now he still held her in place, as if she might otherwise actually try to get up, but with his left hand he stroked her hair, comforting.

“ _Ah!_ ” Gaby cried, jerking instinctively when Napoleon turned her foot. Her right hand flew up to Illya’s on her shoulder and gripped his wrist like a vise as she tried to control herself. “Was that _supposed_ to hurt?” she demanded.

Napoleon frowned. “Hm. No. Hang on a moment.” He touched her ankle again, very carefully this time, gauging the redness and swelling. “Shit. I thought it was a sprain, but your ankle might actually be dislocated.”

“I thought you said my shoulder was dislocated,” she answered through gritted teeth, feeling Illya’s fingers tighten on her shoulder. Though she was mostly distracted, some part of her registered that Napoleon’s diagnosis had made Illya anxious.

“It is. The good news is, your hip is just very badly bruised.” Napoleon’s smile was thin.

“We have to get her to hospital,” Illya cut in, obviously tense and out of patience for the American’s wry humour. “Dislocations are work for a doctor.”

“Why go to a doctor when you have me?” Napoleon asked, still a little too lightly.

“Solo,” Gaby grunted, “I have another leg, and it’s in more than good enough condition to kick you with.”

“Gaby, I’m serious,” he answered, smile fading. “The nearest hospital will take us an hour to get to, and we don’t have that kind of time to spare. Not only would it throw away everything we’ve already gotten done today, but for your foot in particular, time is of the essence. Your blood supply is cut off almost completely.” Glancing up and catching something on Illya’s face – Gaby wasn’t sure what, from her angle – he added, “Peril, I _have_ training. More than you realise. And neither of these are especially bad dislocations. I can reduce the joints myself, and we can get Gaby to a doctor to make sure everything is as it should be when we get back into town tonight. But you and I both know how much we lose if we cut and run now.”

There was a long, heavy silence. “If you do anything to make her injuries worse,” Illya finally responded, slowly, “I will personally dislocate every joint in your body.”

“No,” Gaby said immediately. “Leave all of his fingers for me.”

Napoleon held up his hands. “I’ll do this right, I promise,” he said. “Gaby, see if you can find something to hold onto. Peril, maybe find her something to bite down on, as well. Without anaesthetic, this is going to hurt.”

Gaby went to let go of Illya’s wrist, not wanting to hurt him, but he only shifted to catch her hand in his. Leaning over her, he looked her in the eye, and she understood the invitation to squeeze as hard as she had to. With his other hand he gently pressed a scrap of wood between her teeth – later she would realize it had come from the chair he’d broken over the Serbian’s back – and then shifted so he could hold her other hand as well without moving her injured shoulder.

“Ready?” Napoleon asked.

Gaby looked up into Illya’s intense, concerned gaze and then nodded quickly, shutting her eyes. Illya answered, “Ready.”


	16. "I can explain."

Napoleon knocked on Gaby’s door absently, his mind still focussed on the report in his other hand, and then let himself into the room without waiting for an answer. Wandering in, he greeted, “Morning, Gabs,” without looking up. He was about to sit down on the little couch and wait for her to be ready, but his attention was grabbed by some rather noisy commotion accompanied by curses in two languages. Finally he raised his gaze towards the bed, eyebrows high.

“Solo, what’s the point in _knocking_ if you’re just going to _walk in anyway_ ,” Gaby spat, pulling the sheet around her chest.

“I can explain,” Illya said at almost the same time. The man was standing on the opposite side of the bed from Gaby, dressed only in his underwear.

“No no… I promise, I’ve already received this talk,” Napoleon said instantly. As much as he would have enjoyed demanding said explanation and watching Illya squirm, he couldn’t resist the joke. “Birds, bees, when a man and a woman love each other very much… I do know how it all works, Peril. I promise.” He held up a hand.

Illya had frowned in confusion a little at the ‘birds and bees’ part, unfamiliar with that particular English turn of phrase. “I do not– listen, Gaby and I, we were having important discussion–”

“In your underwear, yes. As one does,” Napoleon agreed, nodding reasonably.

“Something urgent came up that could not wait,” Illya tried, his voice straining slightly. To his credit, he still stood there with his hands on his hips, doing an admirable job of looking dignified – as dignified as someone could, in only their underpants, with a conspicuous hickey on their collarbone.

“Well, my god, then, are you going to share?” Napoleon asked, leaning forward in mock concern. “I ought to be in the loop, too, I think.”

Gaby put a hand over her eyes, sighing heavily, as Illya tried, “Is not of so much concern to you.”

Napoleon straightened up, hands folded, nodding thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, “So this urgent thing that came up – I’m just wondering, was it in your trousers, or–?” Gaby lobbed a pillow at his head, which he ducked, laughing. “Good god, you two, did you think I didn’t _know?_ ” he finally asked, watching with amusement as Illya finally averted his gaze. “You’re both aware I’ve been waiting for it to happen, even _encouraging_ it at times – just because you didn’t tell me the moment it started doesn’t mean you were successfully keeping it a _secret_ from me. I am a _spy_ , you know.”

Illya frowned at some non-specific point on the rumpled bedspread. “We could have kept secret if we really bothered to _try_ ,” he grumbled in a low voice.

Gaby heaved another sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Napoleon,” she began impatiently, “do you think you can find it in you to give us ten minutes’ peace, or is that beyond you today?”

“Only ten?” he asked, giving her a look of exaggerated sympathy. “Oh, dear, Gaby, I’m _sorry_. I really would have thought that a man of Peril’s size and training could last a _little_ –”

“OUT,” she demanded then, pointing towards the door.

Napoleon grinned obnoxiously, ignoring the now-murderous glares he was receiving from both of his partners. “I’ll give you all the time I can,” he said magnanimously. “Don’t forget, though, the hotel stops serving breakfast at ten.” Before they could say anything else, he gave them a little wave and turned to leave. He could feel their stares on his back, and he couldn’t care less.


	17. "Love is overrated."

“Do you love me?”

She could be so confrontational. He wasn’t used to it from someone so much _smaller_ than him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t dealt with confrontation at all; confrontation was his _job_. But most people – especially people under six feet in height – had the sense to at least feign some respect. She never did. When she had a problem with him, there was no way for him to miss it.

And she had a problem with him now. That much was clear. Her shoes dangling from one hand and a half-glass of whiskey in the other, she stood directly in front of him, her index finger lifted from the crystal tumbler to press accusingly into his chest. Her hair was falling loose from its coils, and she glowered up at him from behind a stray curl. He had to admit – he wasn’t an easy man to stare down, but she gave it her all. She was an impressive little woman. Full of fight. And no matter how often he found himself on the receiving end, he wouldn’t change her for the world.

Her question echoed in his mind. _Do you love me?_

How was he supposed to answer that?

“Fft.” The sound was irritated, dismissive – disgusted. She rose up on her bare toes and turned, sauntering away from him, tired of his silence. Tired of waiting for answers. He knew she could be patient, when she wanted to, but in fairness she’d been patient with him for quite some time now.

“Gaby.” She turned again, leaning one elbow on the stone railing, her expression clearly stating that he had one chance to impress her. There was a pause while he assessed her, tried to gauge how much of that whiskey she’d had. “Love is overrated,” he said finally.

The look she gave him was once again disgusted – but not with his words. With the fact that he’d said it. She thought he was lying; that he was in denial. Shaking her head, she made to push off from the railing and stalk away, but he jumped to follow.

“Gaby, wait.” Extending a hand, he drew closer to her again.

“What, Illya.” It wasn’t a question. It was impatient, now, even angry.

“I don’t mean love as feeling,” he clarified. “I mean as word.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and he struggled to find the right words to explain himself. “People say it all the time. _Love_. Does not mean anything, on its own. So easy to say without proving, without acting.” He gestured inarticulately for a moment. “So I… do not say. I show. I protect you, care for you. As much as I can.”

She stepped up to face him at close quarters again. “But you do not kiss me.” That wasn’t strictly true. They had kissed, though perhaps not the way they would’ve liked to – always as part of a cover. Always as people other than themselves. Clearly, she didn’t feel like that counted, regardless of the intense looks they always shared afterward.

“We are frequently interrupted,” he answered in a low voice, looking her in the eye. “And I never know… if you want me to.”

“I always want you to,” she told him firmly, taking one more step so that there was no space left between them anymore. She was challenging him again, but not angrily this time.

He pulled his face close to hers before murmuring, “You are drunk.”

“I am not,” she said slowly, “as drunk as you think I am.” With that, the last remaining centimetre between them disappeared.

Miraculously, their third partner did not make an ill-timed appearance. They finally got their kiss, on the rooftop terrace of some renaissance-era hotel in Madrid, while the evening cooled around them and a fancy soiree went on without them somewhere beneath their feet. It was a few moments before they separated, his arms around her back, her drink on the railing and her forearms draped over his shoulders.

“Tell me you love me,” she requested, running her fingers through the back of his hair. He raised his eyebrows, giving her a sceptical look that asked whether she’d been listening to him at all, and she rolled her eyes. “I like it when you show me. I invite you to _keep_ showing me. But I want to hear it, too.”

“Gaby…”

“I love you, Illya,” she told him, looking him in the eye and drawing her fingertip down the back of his neck.

He closed his eyes for a second as she did so, and when they reopened the look he was giving her was even more intense than before. His hands slid downward and he scooped her up, turning to seat her on top of the wide railing. “I love you, too,” he sighed, leaning into her, his original intent to bring her back downstairs long forgotten.


	18. "Watch me."

“Gaby, there are better ways to get in there,” Solo told her.

“Oh, shut up.” She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “I’ll be just _fine_.”

“Gaby, you cannot just _climb_ a _brick wall_ ,” Illya tried to say, smacking the wall in question. The mortar had worn away significantly over time, but it still didn’t offer much purchase between rows. Nonetheless, she was wedging her fingertips into the cracks, bracing herself between the chimney shaft on her right and the inside corner on her left. It was an oddly-shaped building, and this particular cranny was just narrow enough for her to shimmy up if she kept her knees wide.

“Watch me.”

She scrambled upwards a foot or two from the top of the garbage can she’d started on and managed to catch hold of a drainpipe, using it to haul herself up further.

“ _Bozhe moi_ ,” Illya muttered, exchanging a very brief glance with Solo.

“She’s trying to scale the wall,” the American observed, almost more to himself than anyone else, a shade of puzzled disbelief in his tone. He frowned as he watched her shimmy up the drainpipe a little.

Illya watched her for a few moments, her grunts of effort the only sound in the quiet evening air. Then, suddenly, her angle shifted around the drainpipe and her skirt flared a little–

He turned abruptly and shoved Solo’s shoulder, forcing him to turn away so he couldn’t see what Illya could see. “What–?” But as Illya’s attention returned upwards, Solo seemed to realise what exactly had just happened. “Oh my god, Peril.”

Illya ignored him, his gaze fixed on their colleague – though of course, only for her safety. He absolutely was not admiring the view. Not even if it was very nice, and Gaby had – to his utter embarrassment – absolutely given him permission, the last time she’d caught him looking.

“Shut up, Cowboy,” he snapped, because he could _hear_ the look on Solo’s face.

Gaby had come to a pause, catching her breath and surveying the remaining ten feet or so still above her. She hesitated just a little too long, and Illya moved closer underneath her.

“Gaby,” he said in a low voice. “If you can reach that window ledge on your left, you can lean that way. There is foothold nearby that will help you get the rest of way.”

She grunted something that he supposed was a thank you, her legs swinging wide directly above him. His face reddened slightly.


	19. "I've missed this."

It was the first time they’d been separated for so long since he finally kissed her – three weeks back in Moscow, not a word home, no indication of when exactly he’d be back. Gaby and Napoleon had thought they’d have to take this little San Francisco mission on their own until Illya met them at the hotel the night after they arrived. He hadn’t slept on his flight and was jetlagged all to hell, and they’d had an exhausting day of their own, but they’d spent an hour or two briefing him before they all finally got some rest.

Gaby and Illya had scarcely had a moment to themselves when he managed to get himself into trouble on just the second day. He could hold his own in any fight, certainly, but he hadn’t been counting on any _actual_ murderous intent in this apparent bar brawl, so the gun took him by surprise. If Gaby hadn’t showed up from nowhere to knock the man on his ass, Illya would have taken a bullet to the shoulder.

They were running through the darkened streets of an undeniably seedy neighbourhood, the gunman and his friend in pursuit, when Illya said, “I’ve missed this.”

It seemed to Gaby like a strange time for him to get sentimental, but then, Illya was a man of strange timing, more often than not. Still, she couldn’t help herself from snarking him. “What, me saving your life?” she asked as they rounded a corner, panting slightly. She’d always been more of a driver than a runner.

“Yes,” he answered immediately, his voice a little hoarse with exertion but unbearably earnest.

Taken entirely by surprise, Gaby almost stopped running. She looked at him, and he was watching her with that expression he got sometimes – the one where his whole entire heart was right there on his face, and he was _so in love_ , looking at her like she was the only good thing he’d ever seen. The only thing worth looking at.

She missed a breath, lost for a moment in those blue eyes – sometimes so cold, but always so warm for her. Swallowing hard, she looked behind her, scanning the shadows for movement. “Do you think we lost them?” she asked.

Illya looked as well, always so startlingly capable of going back to his job in an instant, no matter how they were occupied. “Yes,” he answered again, nodding.

Satisfied, she grabbed his sleeve and swung him around into the next alleyway. Somehow he had learned to follow her lead flawlessly, even if he’d been standing immovable, and it was easy for her to pull him to face her even as she turned her back to the wall. She leapt up and threw her legs around his waist and he caught her and pressed her back against the bricks as easily as if they’d planned it, her grip on the lapels of his coat firm and holding him as close as he could get – as if he would ever try to leave. She felt one of his hands press into the dip in her side and she kissed him even harder.

God, but she had missed this, too.


	20. "I don't believe you."

“Do you want to _fight?_ ” Gaby demanded, trying hard to be irritated.

“No, no,” Illya said immediately, shaking his head. “You are so tiny. I could break you. Not a fair match.” Knowing full well that that was completely untrue, Illya grinned even wider. When she rolled her eyes and tried to shift away from him in the bed, he dragged her close against his bare chest and buried his nose in her hair. “So stubborn,” he carried on. “Come, I am only looking out for your own good. Don’t you think you should stay home, like good little Russian housewife? And I will go do the hard work.”

“I am _not_ Russian,” she reminded him.

“Housefrau, then. If you insist.” She couldn’t see his face, but the grin was still plain on his tone. He was having entirely too much fun teasing her.

“Not on your _life_ ,” Gaby said, rolling away in his embrace and making herself as rigid and unfriendly as she could be while he was still holding her so tightly. “God, I can’t stand you.”

“I don’t believe you,” he answered, amused, the arm around her stomach shifting until he could tickle her into wriggling back against him. Her efforts to remain cold were valiant.

“Too bad,” she answered, gritting her teeth as she tried to stay still while Illya’s fingers found their way to the spot he knew would make her squirm. “I’ve officially given up on this relationship. You’re too much work.”

“I just offered to do all the work,” he reminded her. “You can live happy and carefree while I look after everything.”

“You know perfectly well that nothing could be less appealing to me, Illya.”

“ _Moyo solnyshko_ ,” he complained playfully. “You would not let me protect you, provide for you, while you stay home with your books and your radio?”

“There’s nothing good on Russian radio,” she reminded him.

“So you concede to living with me in Russia,” he said triumphantly, and she immediately regretted the slip-up.

“I concede to nothing. Like I told you, this is over. You’re unbearable, you know that?” Summoning all of her strength, Gaby scooted a little further away from him, bending her legs and planting the cold soles of her feet against his knees as if that would really work as a deterrent.

“You do not mean this,” he contended, spreading his hand flat against her smooth stomach.

“I do!” she insisted. “As soon as you let your guard down, I’m gone.”

“Mm, I think I can convince you to stay.”

She only huffed, crossing her arms.

“Oh, come now,” Illya laughed, pushing up onto one elbow so that he could lean close again and reach for a kiss – but stubbornly she moved her face away, leaving him to kiss his way along her jawline instead. Laughing, he then trailed down her neck. “Gaby. My love.”

“I cannot be won back so easily,” she sniffed.

“Fine,” he answered, kissing around the curve of her shoulder. “I admit, I did not mean a word of what I said. You know I didn’t.” Playfully he bit her, just slightly – just enough to leave a tiny dent in the skin, which he kissed again before moving on. “You are stronger and cleverer than I am by far. If only one of us should continue to save the world every day, certainly it should be you.”

“Flattery,” Gaby accused, though she knew he could hear her beginning to soften.

His hand on her abdomen began to wander. “Of course. But never undeserved,” he promised, smiling. Though her arms remained stubbornly crossed, he saw her legs squeeze together as he let his fingers explore, and he knew he was coming close to breaking through her exaggerated defiance. “I will stay home, in that case, and do anything you ask of me. I will be your perfect Russian househusband.”

“Mm… I admit, that’s a little tempting,” she told him. “But no, it is not enough.”

Finally he slid his hand further south, gently worked his way between her thighs as he returned his mouth to her neck. Murmuring more flattery and promises just beneath her ear, he did exactly what he knew she liked best, and eventually she couldn’t help herself from responding.

Ten minutes later, Illya looked up at her from his new position between her legs, smile wide and eyes sparkling. She carded her fingers through his hair, unable to continue her charade of irritation after his little performance. “You are _sure_ you don’t want to be my wife?” he teased.

“I said I don’t want to be your _house_ wife,” she breathed back, huffing out a laugh, and then a second one when she felt his fingers tighten around her thighs at that response.


	21. "Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth on whether to change the word 'nerd' in this one, given that it didn't feel quite right for any of them - but from some quick research, the word WAS a definite part of the American vernacular by the sixties. when I gave it some thought I figured I could picture Solo using it, and the rest of this instalment kind of rolled out from there.

Trapped in an elevator with Illya was not a bad place to be, in Gaby’s estimation. Trapped in an elevator with Illya _and_ Napoleon, however, was less than ideal. They were already on each other’s nerves for the day – Illya had been fussing with a set of radios earlier, a pair that had shorted out when Solo dropped a bag into the water during a chase. Meticulously, the Russian had disassembled them, laying the parts out to dry, and later Napoleon had found him leaned over them on the table with Napoleon’s jeweler’s loop in one hand and Gaby’s tweezers in the other, carefully putting the radios back together.

“God, Peril,” Gaby had heard Napoleon snipe from her spot by the window in the next room. It was her turn to take over surveillance. “This isn’t the Soviet Union. UNCLE will just replace them.”

“Why replace something,” Illya had responded testily, “that is so easily fixed?”

“It doesn’t _look_ easy,” Napoleon had said. “You’ve been at this for half an hour already and I barely see a difference. Why are you _bothering?_ ”

“Easy is not the same as fast,” Illya had answered. “I am bothering because I am not _wasteful_ , Cowboy. Besides, I am fond of this kind of work. It is relaxing, and interesting.”

“You’re…” Napoleon’s pause had been almost _aghast_. “Good god, Peril. You’re a complete _nerd_.”

It had only gotten worse from there, and now the three of them were trapped together in a box with roughly four square metres of floor space, stalled between the seventh and eighth floors of a nondescript office building, on a Sunday evening.

“Smells like sabotage,” Napoleon complained, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “We could be trapped here for hours.”

“No. Sabotage is not what I smell,” Illya responded.

“It’s– it’s a turn of phrase, Peril,” Napoleon said, taken slightly aback. “It means–”

“I know what it _means_ , Cowboy,” Illya interrupted with a withering look. “Pay attention. There is a _smell_. Smells like – electricity.”

Gaby, leaning into the corner, took a deep whiff. “You’re right. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

Illya nodded curtly, then turned to the panel where the elevator’s buttons were, kneeling down in front of it. “Gaby, do you still have the knife I gave you?”

“Mhm.” She reached down to pull the short, slim blade out of the column of her boot. Illya watched with an appreciative sparkle in his eye and a pleased little smirk on his lips, letting his fingers brush against hers as he took the knife from her.

Turning back to the wall, Illya traced with his fingertip the edge of a second panel beneath the buttons – blank except for a little decorative engraving. Then he slid the thin blade into the crack and slowly worked his way around, prying the panel out of the wall. With a loud snap, it finally came loose, and he placed it on the floor next to him.

Peering into the dark mess of switches and cables, Illya nodded to himself. “Yes. Most likely sabotage,” he agreed, reaching in and carefully pulling free a wire that had clearly been sawed apart until it was just barely attached. “Enough connection to work for a few moments, then burn out and leave us here.”

“That’s what I _said_ ,” Napoleon responded, grouchy now.

“Yes. But you were not going to _do_ anything about it,” Illya said, sounding a little smug, and Gaby hid a smile.

“What, and you are?” Napoleon demanded.

“Sometimes, being a ‘complete nerd’ can come in useful,” Illya said, turning and giving his partner a pointed look. Napoleon frowned deeply. “Give me your lighter.”

“Who says I’m carrying a lighter?”

“You always carry your lighter.”

Unhappily, Napoleon handed it over. Illya made use of the few other scant items they had on hand as well – an old surveillance bug Gaby found in the depths of her coat pockets, Napoleon’s tie pin, and several small tools produced from various hiding spots on Illya’s person all went into the slow process of temporarily fixing the elevator. Gaby watched in quiet fascination, inexplicably turned on by this rarely-seen side of him: handy, fixing things, knowledgeable in a practical and industrial way so close to her mechanical expertise and yet just different enough to be somewhat unfamiliar to her.

“Gaby, are you still with us?” Napoleon asked at some point, leaning into her field of vision. “You’ve been staring for a while now.”

She blinked, tearing her gaze away from Illya long enough to toss Napoleon a dirty look. “Solo, you are _so lucky_ I have the decorum not to jump him _right now_.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows raised high, taken by surprise, but Illya grinned as he got to his feet. Leaving the wall panel on the floor, he pulled Gaby in for a long, lingering kiss – Napoleon deserved to be made a little uncomfortable every once in a while – and, without looking, reached out to press the button for the eleventh floor. With a ding, the elevator once again began to move.

Gaby couldn’t help grinning herself when Illya finally pulled away. “I do invite you to fix things around me more often,” she teased, as much to continue unsettling Napoleon as anything else.

“Mm, I will keep this in mind,” Illya answered, leaning down for one more kiss before they reached their destination.


	22. "I don't owe you an explanation."

When Gaby answered the door to their little hideout in the Kazakh SSR, she was met by two unfamiliar faces: one, a man even larger than Illya, unreadable and silent, and the other a tall woman who smiled at her like a spy. In a heavy Russian accent and uncertain German, the woman asked for Illya – not Agent Kuryakin, but Illya. Uncertain, Gaby called out to him, staying exactly where she was in the doorway and fixing the strangers with an appraising look.

In a moment he was at her back, a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Gaby,” he comforted, his touch gentle.

“You didn’t mention that you were expecting anyone,” she said, still suspicious.

“I was not,” he admitted. “But it is not an unwelcome visit.” He squeezed her arm gently, then shifted in front of her, pressing the woman’s hand and smiling in a way so friendly and familiar it took Gaby by surprise. _Yustina,_ he called her, inviting her in, and Gaby stepped back.

Illya put a pot of coffee on the stove and he and Yustina sat down at the kitchen table, the other man standing by the wall with his arms crossed – a bodyguard, perhaps, Gaby judged. She stayed nearby for a while, even helping out when the coffee was ready (and pouring a third mug for herself), but her Russian was still far from fluent and all she could pick out were occasional words and phrases. A few things might have been mission-related, though they were vague enough that they also might not; later, she was fairly certain they were talking about politics. Eventually, frustrated – with the mystery conversation or with herself for being so needlessly suspicious, she wasn’t sure – she moved into the next room to read back over the last few telegrams they’d received from Solo. She needed the distraction, though she kept one ear on the discussion in the kitchen.

It was an hour before Yustina and her guard left again. Gaby got up from her seat, ostensibly to help see them out the door, just in time to see Illya go for another handshake and Yustina to opt instead for a hug. He was awkward at first, but gave her a quick, warm embrace before stepping back. Their final goodbye included something that Gaby was fairly certain was a mutual assurance that it had been very good to see each other again, and then she and her guard went out the door.

“So what was all that about?” she asked, trying hard to be nonchalant. She had no reason to actually _suspect_ anything – for the most part, she genuinely was curious, and it always made her antsy not to know exactly what was going on.

“Information,” Illya answered vaguely, clearly lost in thought.

Gaby frowned. “…Is that really all you intend to tell me?” she finally asked after a pause.

Illya blinked and seemed to return to reality, glancing down at her. Noting her expression, he tipped his head, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Does it worry you, me having a female visitor?”

“Of course not,” she answered, too quickly. “I just couldn’t follow most of the discussion. I wanted to know what this visit was _for_.”

Turning to face her fully, he grinned a little. “And what if I decide not to tell you, Little Chop Shop Girl?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes. “Well, then I _do_ get a little suspicious,” she said, stepping closer to glare at him.

“I do not owe you an explanation,” he challenged, grin growing wide. “I am allowed a life separate from you.”

“But the more you deflect, the more determined I am to _know_ ,” she pointed out. “Come on, just _tell_ me.”

“Why should I?” Illya asked. “It is so unlike you to worry. A little mystery is healthy in life.”

“I am a spy,” she reminded him. “I have ways of getting information out of you.”

“I am also a spy,” he countered. “I am trained in withstanding interrogation – even torture. Besides, is funny to watch you squirm.”

He’d pulled up close to her by then, arms crossed, entirely too amused with the whole situation. Gaby narrowed her eyes again, giving him the dirtiest look she could muster. “Fuck you, Illya.”

His eyes sparkled. “Well, we are supposed to be working, but if you insist…”

 

Three quarters of an hour later, Illya propped himself up over top of her in their little bed, his grin smug at the look on her face and the way she was still trying to catch her breath. “Do you really believe,” he asked her, pausing to kiss her throat, “that any woman – any _person_ – could possibly threaten my feelings for you?”

Gaby threw him another dirty look, though this one was considerably less intimidating. “I’m not used to you keeping secrets,” she answered, still panting slightly.

“I am not keeping secrets,” he assured her, kissing her collarbone now. “You just need to put more effort into learning Russian.” He smiled broadly at the look _that_ earned him, happily shifting himself down to earn back her favour a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote out a whole little backstory for Yustina, though this scene works better without Illya explaining. But if you're curious: she's actually a childhood friend/neighbour of Illya's, the daughter of another important family. They lost contact when the Kuryakin name was sullied. Now a grown woman, she's married to a major Soviet minister and manages to hear, understand, and retain a lot more information about the government than her husband really realises. Through him she's also aware of Illya's position as a top KGB agent (because really, who else could 'Agent Kuryakin' possibly be), and has even heard the rumour that he's involved in some kind of covert international team. When she hears he might be in the USSR again - and for a matter she has some information (and concerns) about, no less - she seeks him out to share what she knows, hunting him down via the powerful (yet politically untapped) information network that is savvy government wives and the husbands'-underlings they've managed to win over. In their discussion, which is mostly about politics but also a little catch-up, Illya tells Yustina about Gaby, who managed to miss the mention of her own name. Yustina is so happy for him, and he offers to introduce them but she admits that she doesn't think Gaby likes her very much, so perhaps another time - the meaning of this comment doesn't fully register for Illya until a bit later.


	23. "We have to be quiet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while writing this one I looked up a list of German curses for Gaby and happened upon 'Ich will ficken' by chance. given what I was already writing, I couldn't resist using it. if you don't get the general idea from context, you're welcome to look it up, but I promise the meaning won't surprise you, haha.

“God, I thought you were never coming,” Gaby complained, when Illya finally slipped softly in from her balcony. He had the suite above hers, so it had been a simple enough task to manoeuvre unnoticed down to her room well after dark. “Come _here_.”

He couldn’t help grinning as he drew close. “So impatient,” he tutted.

“ _Yes_. Because you made me _wait_ ,” she answered, closing the distance between them and twisting her hands into his sweater as she stretched up on her toes.

“I did not want to be caught,” he pointed out, amused, between kisses. She wasn’t wasting any time, now that he’d arrived; somehow she had already undone his belt.

“I can’t believe,” she complained, “how many times we’ve been made to share a room, and now that we’re finally sleeping together, we’re in separate suites.” She ran a hand through his hair, then dragged him backwards towards the bed. He followed eagerly.

“Come now. We haven’t had to share _that_ often,” Illya said, kissing her neck.

“It was far too often for me to see you half-dressed in the morning and not be able to _do_ anything about it,” she countered.

He laughed. “Yes, perhaps.” He paused to suck on the skin where her neck met her shoulder, simultaneously letting his hands explore under the hem of her blouse, and she let out a moan. The look he gave her was an attempt at stern, in spite of how much he revelled in being able to draw that sound from her. “We have to be quiet.”

“There’s no way Napoleon can hear us,” Gaby told him, pushing his sweater up. “He’s three rooms away. And I already swept for bugs.”

“But your room neighbours saw you turn in alone,” he argued, though his resolve was crumbling. She pushed on his shoulders and he sat up, letting her pull his sweater and undershirt over his head all at once; when he came back down, he immediately began to unbutton her blouse.

“ _Verdammt_ , Illya!” she complained, putting her hands on his neck and dragging him down for another fierce kiss. “ _Ich will ficken!_ ”

Illya possessed an impressive amount of self-discipline, but if anyone could wear him down it was Gaby. “So crude,” he admonished weakly, pushing her shirt off her shoulders once he had it open. “Shh. Let me…” She twisted her way out of the blouse and then latched onto his shoulders as his mouth travelled downwards. While he explored, she let out another long moan.

“ _Quietly_ ,” he muttered, barely lifting his head this time.


	24. "You're trembling."

By the time Gaby got back to the little inn they’d been staying at, she’d been out in the wind and snow for four whole hours. She would have managed it – complained, but managed just fine – if she’d been dressed for that kind of weather. The problem was, she hadn’t been: a knee-length dress, a jacket, her pantyhose, and a hat and boots that were all more decorative than functional.

Solo and Illya were wracked with guilt when she showed up. She’d been working her part of the job alone that evening, and though she was a bit late getting back, they hadn’t really begun to worry about her yet. They had their own responsibilities. They tried urgently to help her when she got in, shivering hard, but she’d swatted away their hands and asked for something to eat and a warm cup of coffee.

(Solo demanded to know why she hadn’t contacted them, but she explained plainly and a little indignantly that it simply hadn’t been an _option_ , when her mark had knocked her out and abandoned her well outside of town. Walking back was the only choice she had, and she’d done it, and now would he please turn up the radiator and get her that damn coffee.)

Illya stuck around even after Solo had to leave, taking his time to make her a good, hot meal. She was bundled in her pyjamas and a thick blanket next to the radiator when he brought her the soup, which he’d somehow managed to produce with the rented room’s hot plate and the tiny slow cooker he’d brought along for use in some special trick of his or another. She gulped it down gratefully, then handed the bowl back to him and pulled her arms back into the blanket.

He watched her for a quiet moment or two, concerned, and then drew a little closer across the floor to put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re trembling,” he observed with a frown.

Gaby barked a mostly-joyless laugh. “Sounds familiar.”

“No, I am serious.” He was so focussed it was unclear if he’d even caught onto what she was referencing. “Come here. I will warm you up.”

She eyed him for a moment as he pulled himself to his feet and then moved to pull her up as well, but eventually she conceded. “I seem to remember your hands being rather cold,” she complained jokingly as he directed her towards the bed.

“Rest of me is less so,” he told her, and she realised that he actually _did_ intend to use his body heat to warm her. Before she could protest, he was pressing her into the bed, lifting the covers for her to snuggle under. Then he followed her in, pulling the blankets tight over top of them both.

“Illya,” Gaby muttered, in what was intended to be a warning tone, though it came out rather half-hearted.

“What?” he asked, wrapping himself around her and pulling her close. “You would prefer to shiver on the floor?” He seemed to surround her completely this way, but she was hard-pressed to come up with a legitimate complaint.

“Your hands are still cold,” she finally grumbled into his chest.

“You are colder.”

“You’re such a mother hen,” she told him. It was an unkind way to refer to the caregiver nature he obviously possessed, and which she often quite liked, but she was embarrassed.

“I am _survivalist_ ,” Illya corrected her matter-of-factly. “Very different. Besides, Chop Shop Girl is no helpless little chick.”

“Mmph.” She wanted to complain further, but the temptation to push her still-numb cheeks into the warmth radiating from his chest proved too strong.


	25. "I want an answer, goddammit!"

“Have either of you heard from Waverly yet? He told me he’d get back to me with better intel on the duchess as soon as possible, and I can’t really move forward until he does.” Napoleon swept through the sparse living space of their rented loft, dumping his jacket on a chair as he passed on his way to the trunk in the corner where he was keeping his things.

“I’m not sure,” Gaby answered, flipping a page of the old Russian newspaper she was reading for practice. “There were a couple of phone calls earlier – darling, do you remember who it was?”

Her bare feet rested, crossed at the ankle, in Illya’s lap at the far end of the second-hand sofa. Idly, he stroked her skin, putting his book down to think. “Mm. Give me moment. First was – Cowboy’s contact at the brothel, downtown. She said… something about money. And a message to be delivered in person.”

Napoleon stood up from the trunk, a smoking jacket in one hand and a stack of bills in the other, and frowned at them.

“Yes, of course,” Gaby agreed, nodding. “And then your friend from the embassy, of course, but that wasn’t really about the mission – more had to do with the letter you sent to him last month.”

“Yes. He wanted to meet me, if possible – his wife has something for me. Well, for us,” Illya amended, tipping his head towards her. “I tried to insist it wasn’t necessary, but she is an overly generous woman.”

“We ought to send her flowers,” Gaby suggested. “As a thank you.”

“Good idea,” Illya said. “I will check with Dmitri to make sure she has no allergies.”

“ _Waverly,_ ” Napoleon reminded, pointedly. They didn’t even look at him, and he threw his smoking jacket back into the trunk with a sigh.

“Yes, yes, now, just hang on,” Gaby said. “One thing at a time. Before I forget, Illya, does Dmitri have children?”

“He has a son, Georgiy – but he’s at boarding school back in Russia. Dmitri and Katya won’t see him again until December. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, he just mentioned to me that he was in the market for a new car,” Gaby answered. “And I was doing some looking around for him – I wondered how many seats they needed.”

“Please,” Napoleon interrupted, again. “Just tell me if Waverly has called. This whole operation is at a standstill until I hear from him.”

“Not a _complete_ standstill,” Gaby argued, finally affording him a brief glance. “You’ve been keeping a _variety_ of appointments, making connections, all that. You’re the one who told _me_ it was best to get your information from a wide range of sources. And while Illya’s meeting with Dmitri is admittedly mostly social, he may in fact have some useful knowledge for us, as well.”

“Plus, Gaby now has some time to rest her sprained shoulder,” Illya added. “Is better this way, really.”

“Oh! That was the third call,” Gaby said. “The doctor from UNCLE, confirming that there were no fractures visible on the x-ray he was sent.”

“Of course, yes,” Illya said, snapping his fingers. “I almost forgot.”

Napoleon looked back and forth between them, aghast. Was this just because they’d been cooped up in the loft for a day and a half, with almost nothing to do? Were they getting their entertainment out of bothering him whenever he reappeared between things? If it were just Gaby, he wouldn’t have been all that surprised, but the fact that Illya was participating as well was a little strange. Their conversation devolved into a quiet little sidebar about how was she feeling, by the way, and should Illya get her some more ice?, when he suddenly couldn’t take it anymore. They were _toying_ with him. He clapped his hands once, loudly, and barked, “I want an answer, goddammit! Did Waverly get in touch or _not?_ ”

Finally they broke character, Gaby dissolving into unconcealed giggles while Illya kept his back turned but didn’t hide the bouncing of his shoulders. Napoleon heaved another sigh, scooping a folded pair of socks from his trunk and lobbing them at Gaby’s head. “I swear to God,” he muttered. “The two of you have been married for a month and you’re so much more insufferable than I ever would have guessed.”

“Oh, Napoleon!” Gaby cried, raising a hand to her chest in delight. “That is absolutely the loveliest thing you could have said to us today.”

Napoleon threw his arms in the air, already exhausted. He needed intel from Waverly and Gaby’s shoulder healed as quickly as possible, because these two were going to drive him to insanity if this kept up much longer.


	26. "It was you the whole time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick warning, in case this might be a sensitive topic for you - this instalment does deal, sort of obliquely, with Gaby's discomfort after a job in which she had to seduce a mark whom she did not like or trust _at all,_ and generally had to get much more intimate with than she'd hoped for. it's not quite non-con but it's close enough that I wanted to make sure y'all were going in prepared. if it makes you uncomfortable, please skip the chapter! I don't want you to put yourself through that, and I promise you're not missing anything vital. even message me/comment if you'd like to get the gist of the Gallya content without reading the rest of it, and I'll give you a summary/recap at whatever level of detail you're comfortable with.

Illya hated this – that much was clear. Gaby hated it, too, but even more because she could tell how much he did. During the day, she was his wife, happy and complacent on his arm, doing her marital duty without the smallest complaint. And then, in the evenings, after he turned in early – for his health, of course; the doctor simply insisted (much as Solo was most certainly too handsome and too suave to play the part of an oil baron’s attending physician) – she stole out of their room and into the arms of their mark, a man with a known taste for married women.

It took her two full weeks of plying him, of flirting and then playing coy, of seducing him and then pretending to fret about the risk of her husband catching on, before they got the information they needed. She had to give him far more than she’d wanted to, and that made her hate all of this five times more than she had already. He was out cold on the bed – wouldn’t wake up for a good twelve hours, at her best guess – when she slipped out of his rented room for the last time, and goosebumps rose on her skin as she tried to push the whole experience out of her memory. She pulled her coat closer around her as if it could save her from recalling the feeling of his hands on the zipper of her dress.

Illya and Solo were conferring softly when she returned to the room, and she wasn’t in any mood to talk, she realised immediately. Throwing a fat manila folder and a set of keys onto the table next to them, she disappeared into the washroom before they could even greet her. She stripped as fast as she could and stepped into a scalding shower – she needed to wash everything off her as soon as possible, to scrub away the top layer of her skin until she had nothing left that that unsavoury man had ever touched. The heat helped. She could imagine she was burning him away, imagine boiling off the contamination like her foster mother used to do with vegetables.

By the time she finally got out of the shower and redressed in her pyjamas – which took an awful lot of willpower, that particular evening, because she still felt much too dirty even half a bar of soap later – Solo had slipped away for the night, back to his own room. She couldn’t blame him for that. He’d been up early that morning and now, looking at the clock, they were several hours into morning again. Illya was sitting in the armchair, a book in his lap, but he wasn’t reading – he was waiting for her, looking restless and unhappy. She went past him, straight to the liquor cart, inspecting the labels with a frown. Which one would burn the most? Maybe if she could disinfect her insides, too, she could finally feel clean enough to face the man behind her.

“Gaby,” he said, a little desperately, as she poured a glass of expensive vodka. She would have preferred something that she didn’t associate so closely with Illya himself, but it seared her throat the way she’d been craving. She heard him stand up behind her, and finally, gritting her teeth, she turned to look at him.

“I–” There seemed to be a lot on his mind, and he was reaching towards her, but then he stopped and let his hand fall. Seeing the hardness in her eyes – she wished she’d been able to get rid of it, but she couldn’t, not tonight – he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she answered, but she wasn’t, not really, and they both knew it.

Illya swallowed. He knew what had happened, she knew he did; she’d bugged that little apartment for a reason. Watching his fingers flex and curl told her exactly how he felt about it, not that she’d needed to guess. They had both loathed this mission from the start, but he was far angrier about it than she was. Some part of her that wasn’t yet completely lost to disgust noted how impressive it was, in that case, that he was obviously trying to put his rage aside so that he could try to speak to her, try to make sure she was okay.

“I was– I tried to–” He cut himself off a few times, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I wanted to interfere,” he finally admitted. “Cowboy stopped me.”

“I can take care of myself,” she told him, but her tone was flat and unconvincing, because in all honesty she would have vastly preferred interference, even if it screwed them as far as the mission went. Surely there had to be other ways to accomplish certain things. Even if this was smoothest, that didn’t mean it was the best method. It wasn’t fair that the price for escaping the Iron Curtain should include _selling_ herself like this.

“Of course you can,” he assured her. “I just… I did not want…” He still seemed to be struggling. She wondered whether he was trying not to humiliate himself, or trying not to offend her. Likely both, knowing Illya. His voice was strangled and he couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a second at a time. “I did not want him to do that to you. You should not have to put up with such treatment.”

“No,” she agreed, feeling the heat behind her eyes, the unpleasant pricking in her skin. “No, I shouldn’t. I don’t– I don’t think I’ll be agreeing to anything like this again.” Unable to help it, she hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms. In the corner of her eye, she could see his fingers tapping against his leg, his posture growing hard. Then he forcibly relaxed, stretching his hands, taking a deep breath.

“I won’t _let_ it happen again,” he promised her, earnest and urgent. “They– they cannot demand such a thing of you. If they try I will not allow it. This was unacceptable. That man, he–” He took another deep breath, closing his eyes, and let it out slowly. Finally he met her eye again, and what she saw was gentle and concerned, not angry. Not hard. “Gaby.” He stepped towards her, reached forward.

Her instinct was to recoil. She couldn’t touch him, said some voice deep in her core. Not with the same hands, the same skin that she’d touched the mark with only two hours ago. But then she looked into his face and she saw comfort, and she let him take her by the wrists, pull her into him. She pressed her face into his chest and twisted her hands in his turtleneck as he wrapped his arms around her. As he enveloped her she finally felt something at the centre of her begin to relax. She could breathe. She could breathe.

“It was you the whole time,” she choked out.

She felt him pause. “What do you mean?” he asked after a moment, leaning his head down near hers, though he couldn’t see much of her face.

“It was you, Illya,” she repeated. “I got through all of this by thinking of you. These whole last two weeks. I– something about him was so unpleasant right from the start. I wanted nothing to do with him. He repulsed me. So every time I was even _near_ him, I thought of you instead, and that made it… bearable.”

He seemed to be considering that. After a few seconds one of his hands drifted up to the back of her head, and he stroked her hair gently. When she stole a glance up at his face, he looked… moved.

“This will not happen again,” he said, even more adamantly than before. “I will not allow this to happen again. Not for anything.”

Gaby nodded into his sweater, letting him hold her, letting him rub her back until her discomfort began to melt away, letting him wrap all the way around her and keep her safe from everything else. She believed him.


	27. "Tell me again."

“Hello, husband,” Gaby greeted with a trace of a smile, settling into her favourite position across his lap. Illya’s lip quirked as he put his notes aside on the end table and fixed his attention on her. She got too much enjoyment out of covers that made them husband and wife, now that reality finally matched them. She still played her role, but there was a sparkle in her eye just for him every time she got to reference their marriage. There was something endlessly amusing to her about planting that seed of truth in her lies.

“Hello,” he answered lightly, all too pleased to be distracted. Normally he was better focussed than this, but he hadn’t quite gotten over the heady joy of being _married_ to her, even after three months – and besides, this case had been a bore so far. “Can I help you, _moyo solnyshko?_ ”

Her smile grew a little as she draped her arms lazily over his shoulders, running her fingers fondly through the back of his hair. “Actually, I wanted to share a bit of good news with you,” she told him.

“Oh?” Illya raised his eyebrows. “Has Cowboy finally done his job, found us something to do?”

She laughed. “No, he’s still dragging his feet on this one,” she answered. “Our only job, for now, is still just to look pretty and in love.” She laughed again as he scrunched his nose in exaggerated disappointment. “Actually, I think you’ll find this news much better.”

“Then tell me,” he said, pressing a finger lightly into the ticklish spot on her side, whose precise location he had long ago memorised. “Good news would be welcome on such a boring day.”

For a moment Gaby only smiled at him, though not mischievously – she seemed to be admiring him, soaking in the moment. He would have been lying if he’d said he didn’t like being looked at that way. He’d been appraised many times before, by many people, but when she did it she wasn’t measuring his value as an agent, as a tool, as an opponent – she saw his value as a man. As her husband.

One of her hands drifted away from his neck down to his wrist, and she moved his palm around her middle until it rested against her belly. She held his gaze the whole time, smiling, and he simply stared at her. The meaning of the gesture wouldn’t compute. He blinked.

“You’re going to be a father,” she finally told him gently, now just about glowing.

Illya stared for another long moment, all the breath suddenly escaping his body. The warmth of her body under his hands seemed infinitely more significant than it had ever been before. He licked his lips as if to speak, but after a tiny sound somewhere in the back of his throat, he was silent.

She grinned. “What?” she teased softly. “You speak _four_ languages now and can’t come up with a single word in any of them?”

He shook his head slightly. “Tell me again,” he finally breathed, voice strangled.

“You’re going to be a father,” she repeated, and the hand that wasn’t laid on top of his on her stomach shifted to cup his cheek. “We’re going to have a baby.”

And then, all of a sudden, the dam broke. There were tears in his eyes, his expression disbelieving and utterly overjoyed. “I am– we are–?” Gaby nodded, and he removed his hand from her middle so that he could throw both arms around her and draw her close in a near-crushing hug. He had a way of almost completely enveloping her in his embrace, and judging by the way she burrowed into him, she loved it just as much this time as she always did.

Surely, the way she nestled into his chest, she could feel the way his heart was pounding.

“Gaby,” Illya said, his voice muffled now against her shoulder. She pressed into him in response, and he balled his fist in the back of her sweater, telling her he loved her in every language he spoke, as he was often inclined to do when he was overwhelmed. “I– you and I– a _child_.”

She nodded against his chest. “And it’s going to be such a _beautiful_ child, Illya,” she said.

After a few more moments he let her go, suddenly shifting his grip so that he could pull her up until she knelt over him on her knees. She watched in amusement as he stooped to push up the hems of her blouse and sweater and then cupped his hands behind her thighs, kissing the smooth skin of her stomach, gently, over and over.

He was still crying, and she ran her fingers through his hair.

“You’re going to be such an incredible father.”


	28. "This is why we can't have nice things."

At very least, Napoleon had the sense not to enter their room uninvited until late in the morning. They’d had time to wake up and talk, go another round, shower, and finally get dressed by the time he arrived. What they hadn’t had time for, yet, was to put the suite back together.

Napoleon surveyed the damage with an eyebrow quirked. He almost seemed impressed. The coffee table was knocked on its side, a ceramic vase broken into at least three pieces with the flowers it had housed now scattered across the floor. The armchair laid on its back, and based on the indents in the carpet, the chaise had been pushed askew by almost two feet. He couldn’t see much into the bedroom from where he stood, but there was a pillow leaning against the doorframe and he could see the sheets trailing over the footboard and piling against the floor.

Leaning down, he picked up what could only have been Illya’s shirt from the night before, three of the buttons missing, and glanced at Gaby skeptically.

“What?” she asked defensively, lifting her chin and crossing her arms. “Like you’ve never destroyed a hotel room before.”

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” he commented mildly, turning his gaze to the shirt again. One of the shoulder seams was torn. How was that even possible? It was a well-made shirt – one of his favourite brands. He’d gotten through whole jobs without damaging them. “ _Really_ , Gaby…”

“We hadn’t seen each other in two whole months,” she answered. Clearly she didn’t feel any shame. Napoleon glanced past her to Illya, eyebrows raised. The Russian merely shrugged and tipped his head to one side, as if to say, _she’s right._

“Remind me not to get into the path of your reunions,” Napoleon sighed.


	29. "I'm not going anywhere."

In the end, neither of them would be sure who said it first – only that it was important. That it was a mantra they could use to stay grounded, to stay sane. It was the thing that tied them back to each other every time they feared drifting apart.

Illya had more than his fair share of fears about abandonment – after all, anyone that hadn’t been taken away from him, he’d been taken away from in turn. Losing his father so dramatically at such a young age had left one hell of a scar, and then the KGB’s way of reeling Illya away from anyone else that he cared for had deepened it. It was a wound that would always ache and never truly heal.

So whenever Mother Russia called home her prodigal son, or MI5 sent its German firecracker her own way, Gaby would place her hands on either side of his face and tell him, “I’m not going anywhere.” She would kiss his forehead and squeeze his hands and make sure he understood that no matter how far he travelled, she would always be in his heart, on his mind, at his side – and she would be waiting for him when he returned home.

Gaby, herself, was no stranger to loss. Where Illya had had his relationships systematically destroyed, she had seen too much death. She lost her first family to the war, her second to age – and then her father a second time, to the Vinciguerras and their greed. Her heart had spent too much time grieving. For so long she had tried to armor herself from caring, had tried not to love too much so that she could never again lose so painfully – but that wasn’t her nature. She had so much love to give.

So whenever Illya found himself walking into danger, he wrapped Gaby in his arms and reminded her, “I’m not going anywhere.” He’d stroke her hair and whisper in her ear and make sure she understood that nothing in the entire world could ever stop him from coming home to her – not borders or governments, not bullets or blades. His entire life was a circle that led back to her no matter how far away he went.

A year into their relationship, Illya cheated death and Gaby escaped imprisonment and a day later they slammed back into each other like nothing could keep them apart – which, of course, nothing _could_. Both were worse for wear and neither had been certain the other was even _alive_ and not even the universe dared to stop them from finding their way back home to one another’s arms. Exhausted and damaged and relieved, they tumbled back to their hotel room as Solo and Waverly and a team of specialists took care of the rest.

Neither of them really wanted to know what the other had actually been through – not yet. First, they were focussed entirely on each other, on reaffirming that they were both safe and whole and together.

“I’m here,” Gaby breathed, pressing her forehead against his, wishing she knew how to hold every part of him at once. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m– I love you so much, Illya. I’m here and I would never leave you.”

Illya was half-weeping, holding her close, and they both wondered if he’d ever find it in himself to let go again. “I am here, too,” he promised. “I am here for you, I am here _because_ of you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I was so scared,” she confessed, her fingers twisting into his undershirt. “I didn’t know what was happening to you. I just– I just had to know you were all right. I had to come back to you.”

He nodded, dipping his face into her neck and pressing his skin against hers. “And I needed to survive everything to see you safe again. I _love_ you, Gaby. I am not going anywhere. I am _here_.”


	30. "You don't see me."

Illya was _trying_ to read a book. The three of them had a little downtime between jobs and he’d been hoping to make a dent in his reading list, which had been somewhat neglected of late. But of course, he should have known better than to think he could get anything productive done while his partners were still in the same country as he was.

He glanced up from his book and cocked an eyebrow at Gaby, where she’d pressed herself against the wall around a nearby corner. She narrowed her eyes at him, then put a finger to her lips. Slinking down to the floor, she crept up to his armchair, hiding herself against the left side.

“You don’t see me,” she hissed.

Illya only tipped his face slightly more towards her, eyebrow still raised.

“Napoleon,” she whispered, frowning. Illya’s gaze flicked across the room to where their American colleague was doing a series of stretches, preparing for his next cover as an amateur gymnast.

Gaby rolled across the carpet towards the couch. Illya watched for a moment as she continued her slow, silent journey across the room – she was trying to sneak up on Solo, for some reason. What was her end goal? Was she… trying to _scare_ him?

The corner of Illya’s lip twitched as he considered that. It would be well-deserved payback, after what Solo had pulled the other day. Gaby’s plan struck him as a little silly, not to mention childish, but he couldn’t help finding himself a bit amused. He returned his attention to his book, helpfully ignoring Gaby as she darted from the sofa to the side of the bookcase on the far wall.

“God,” Solo grunted, stretching out his lower back. “I swear this kind of thing used to be easier.” After another moment or two, he turned towards Illya. “Don’t _you_ have more preparation to do, Peril?”

“No,” Illya said, shrugging one shoulder without really looking up from his book. “I am quite ready for my next cover.”

Solo frowned, turning again as he began another stretch – but this time he was turning towards Gaby’s hiding place.

Illya acted without thinking. “Tell me, Cowboy,” he began, making it up as he went. “Does CIA not administer regular fitness tests to its agents?”

Solo frowned a second time, straightening back up to face the Russian. Good: Gaby was safe for another moment or two. “They do,” he answered slowly, affronted. “But I can’t say that _gymnastics_ were ever a top priority. Come on, Peril, you can’t tell me all that muscle doesn’t impede your flexibility even a _little_.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he put his book aside carefully and got to his feet. Leaning down, he demonstrated a neat, legs-straight toe-touch, then stretched up again and crossed his arms. “You would like to see me do handstand?” he asked, looking Solo in the eye. “Cartwheels, perhaps? Balance beam?”

Not only did he get the pleasure of knowing he was getting under Napoleon’s skin, but he’d also bought Gaby exactly enough time. She tip-toed up behind Solo until she stood directly behind him, grinning and reaching for his shoulders.


	31. "I can't keep kissing strangers and pretending that they're you."

“Damnit, Illya, I’m tired of batting my eyelashes and playing the bait while you and Napoleon do all of the interesting work.” Gaby flung her expensive heels across the room.

“You do other things,” he reminded her calmly, not looking up from his newspaper. “You are not merely honeypot.”

She cast him a dirty look, already pouring a drink, but he wasn’t paying any attention. She hated being ignored, and sauntered across the room to perch on the end of the chaise where he was sitting. “So how about you or Napoleon play the pretty one next time, hm? And I’ll stand back looking grumpy.”

Illya folded down the top of his paper and looked at her. “I have feeling I am somewhat less seductive than pretty German girl. No matter how much I bat my eyelashes,” he told her, his poker face flawless.

She groaned, knocking back her drink. “It’s boring,” she told him. “It’s a poor use of my skills. It’s _unpleasant_. I’m tired of being leered at and pretending I enjoy it.” Bottle still in one hand, glass in the other, she poured another drink. “It’s… degrading.”

If he were being honest, Illya agreed with her. He thought she was above the role of tempting eye candy, and that the whole concept was rather distasteful. But, out of respect for the work, he said, “It is important job. Very useful for getting information, access, so on. And spy should be prepared to do what he or she must. You should carry on.”

Gaby made a disgusted noise and stalked into the other room to change into her pyjamas, having her third drink there. Before Illya could stop her, she gulped down a fourth as she returned.

“All right, that is enough, Chop Shop Girl,” he told her, removing the bottle from her grasp and taking it back to the sideboard. The alcohol was already getting to her; she waved a scarf in the air as she tuned the radio. At least she wasn’t playing it so loud, this time, though.

“Do you know what the worst part is?” she asked a few minutes later, dancing lazily past him where he stood leaning against the wall. He raised his eyebrows in question, and she carried on, “How often it has to go past flirting. Do you know how many horrible men I’ve had to kiss for the sake of this job?”

“I try not to think about it,” he answered, eyeing her carefully. If she fully registered his meaning, she didn’t show it.

“Me too,” she told him. “It’s more than I ever would have cared for. And how many people have you or Napoleon had to kiss, against your will, in this line of work?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “None. Exactly. Bullshit.”

He hesitated a moment. “I am sorry. I would rather you did not have to do it,” he told her, crossing his arms. “It is clearly disagreeable part of job.”

“To put it lightly,” she agreed. She waved the fluttery scarf over her head again, then hung it behind her neck, holding it on either side by the corners. Like that, she marched up to him, getting in too close the way she always did. She stared up into his face, and he looked back down at her, eyebrows once again raised expectantly. “It’s _terrible_ ,” she emphasized.

“Yes,” Illya answered. “We have established this.”

“I’m _tired_ ,” she said slowly, “of kissing them.”

“So I understand.”

Gaby had to crane her neck to look at him, when she stood that close. Now she narrowed her eyes, intent. “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

For a moment he didn’t respond, simply considering. That amused little smile that she so often inspired had returned to his face, and he stood up a little straighter. “You prefer to imagine me, hm?” he asked.

“I do,” she said decisively, swaying slightly in place as she determinedly maintained eye contact.

He uncrossed his arms, resting his hands on his hips. “And why would this be?” He knew, with their track record, that he should just go for it – that dragging it out diminished their chances. But he enjoyed this too much. Besides…

She swayed again as their lips drew close, and if not for his steady hand on her side, she might have stumbled. “You are drunk again, Little Chop Shop Girl,” he teased her gently. “You should stop using alcohol just to sleep. Is not healthy.”

“I can think of something else that would help me sleep,” she tried, but it came out too mumbly to be truly flirtatious. She leaned into him, dizzy, and he pressed his hand into the small of her back to lead her to bed.

“Go to sleep, Gaby,” he told her as he pulled the covers up over her chest. “We will talk more tomorrow.” She hummed her assent, and he couldn’t help himself – he bent over her for a moment and kissed her gently atop the head. She hummed again and caught one of his fingers as he rose, an oddly familiar gesture.

In the morning, she was more hungover than usual, and recollected little. “This must be very strong brandy,” she muttered, peering suspiciously at the label on the half-empty bottle.

“Must be,” Illya agreed, smiling. He was even more certain now than he had been last night that it hadn’t yet been the right time.

He definitely wanted her to remember their first kiss.


	32. "You could have died."

After Illya drifted back into a morphine-induced sleep, Waverly allowed Gaby to sit and hold his hand for a few minutes longer before pushing off from the wall where he leaned. Tapping on her shoulder, he said softly, “I’d like to speak to you in the corridor.” Glancing once more at Illya, she sighed, nodded, and followed her boss out into the hall.

The door closed behind them, Waverly turned and faced her, arms crossed and eyebrows lowered. “You could have died,” he pointed out, more than a little peeved.

Gaby wasn’t intimidated. Lifting her nose in the air, she said simply, “Illya needed backup.”

Waverly glowered at her. By God, the _nerve_ on this girl – but then, she could get away with it, couldn’t she? Doubtless it had kept her alive more than once. “Listen, Agent Teller,” he told her. “I understand never leaving a man behind. Especially when it’s a teammate. But you can’t afford to be so reckless with your own life. You know we could have gone back in for him – that we would never just abandon Kuryakin completely. But it would have been far safer to fall back and take a few minutes to plan. I was already working on some ideas, and I know for a fact that Solo was doing the same.”

“Of course you were,” she agreed, nodding. Her words were polite but her tone was indignant. “Everyone was. And I’m certain you and Napoleon both know that if you _did_ try to leave Illya behind, I’d kill you personally. But he’s hospitalised as it is. How much worse would it have been if I hadn’t gone back in when I did? You might have saved the man, but would you have been in time to save the agent?”

Framing it as concern for Illya’s future ability to perform the job? Waverly narrowed his eyes in combined irritation and suspicion. Surely she didn’t believe he was that stupid. Surely his favourite little team didn’t really believe he didn’t _know_ what was going on. Even Solo was in on the secret, Waverly was quite aware. He was willing to feign ignorance, though, so long as it didn’t impact their performance, and so far it hadn’t. He didn’t care for the idea that it might make the trio believe that their boss was losing his edge, though.

Watching his expression change, Gaby crossed her own arms and jutted out her chin defiantly. For God’s sake. Fine. If she was going to be that way, there was no actual talking to her, anyway. “You had better not pull any nonsense like this again,” he warned her, letting his annoyance bleed into his tone. “It won’t go undisciplined a second time, I can promise you that.” He sighed when he saw the triumphant smile in her eyes. “Now go home. Get some rest. Kuryakin won’t be awake again for several hours. Solo and I will look after him in the meantime – you could use a shower and a good meal, I don’t doubt.”

Gaby nodded curtly. “I’ll try to get some sleep. But if he does wake up, or if the doctors come back with any important news, you two had better _call me_. No exceptions. If I come back and hear even one word about wanting to let me rest, I’ll have _both_ of your heads.”

As she turned on her heel and headed down the hall towards the elevators, Solo came up behind Waverly’s shoulder, returning from the cafeteria. “She means that,” he said, adjusting his arm in its sling. “Hungry?”


	33. "Prove it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is... probably actually my very favourite in the collection. I just, really love it so much. I hope you do too!

“Well, I can say one thing about this job,” Gaby observed from her seat on the couch. “It should be interesting to see the two of you try to handle an infant.”

“I take offense to that,” Solo said from across the room. “My charisma works on _everyone_. There’s no age limit to that. I’m more concerned that _none_ of us will be able to calm a baby while that _giant_ is hanging around. He’s terrifying.” He pointed accusingly at Illya.

Illya turned to shoot Solo a dirty look. “I am quite good with children, if you must know.”

“By _children_ , do you mean _bear cubs?_ ” Solo asked, raising his eyebrows.

Gaby had found the little girl when she went to meet a contact. She’d entered the apartment and found her contact dead on the kitchen floor and the infant crying in the bedroom. They didn’t know who she belonged to – certainly not the man Gaby had been meeting with. She’d scooped the child up, hushed and soothed her to relative calm, and brought her back to their safe house. A diaper change and some food had required some resourcefulness, but she made it work. When Illya and Solo returned from their own task, Gaby had hushed them immediately and relegated them to the living room – the furthest room in their dingy safehouse from the bedroom where the baby was asleep on a blanket on the floor.

When they heard her wake up and begin to cry again, Solo insisted he go fetch her. “You’ll see. We’ll get on famously.” A few moments later he returned, bouncing her gently in the crook of his elbow, but she wasn’t having it.

“You checked her diaper?” Gaby asked drily.

“Yes,” he answered, frowning. “And she shouldn’t be hungry, though you could go grab what’s left of that carrot, if you _want_.”

Rolling her eyes, Gaby got up and went to the kitchen to fetch the leftovers of the vegetables she’d cooked down for the baby earlier. Working together, she and Solo tried to convince the girl to eat, but anything they managed to get into her mouth she spat back out onto Solo’s vest. He wasn’t impressed, but to his credit, didn’t audibly complain.

They had been listening to the girl sob for twenty minutes when Illya finally said, “I am still willing to try, Cowboy.”

“If there’s nothing _I_ can do, there’s certainly nothing _you_ can do,” Solo answered indignantly. “Normally children _love_ me.”

Illya spread his hands. “They like me, too, but very well. Is up to you.”

Solo exchanged a look with Gaby, who only shrugged. “Fine,” Solo grouched, turning back to Illya. “Prove it.”

“Of course.” Illya got up off the sofa and crossed the room to take the baby from Solo’s hands. The smile he gave her had a gentleness he normally reserved just for Gaby, when he didn’t think anyone else was looking. He laid her against his left shoulder, one hand under her bum and the other spread across her back – she looked absolutely tiny against him. Rubbing her back, he said softly, “Hello, _zaichik_.”

Solo and Gaby watched as Illya crossed the room to stand by the window, peering out between the blinds into the street. His hand on the infant’s back rubbed up and down, and he began to sing something that might have been a lullaby, in Russian. His voice was soft and low, rumbling deep in his chest in a way Gaby suspected the baby must be able to feel.

As the girl slowly began to calm herself, Illya leaned his head close to hers, singing quietly into her ear. Gradually she relaxed, melting into his shoulder, her tiny hands wound tightly into the fabric of his turtleneck.

“This is nonsense,” Solo said, turning to Gaby and gesturing incredulously as the baby closed her eyes. “It’s a Russian baby. It must be. That’s the only explanation.”

“Shh,” Illya said, turning to face them again. “She is sleeping. Go clean up, Cowboy.”

Solo glowered for a moment, then stalked off to the kitchen. A moment later they heard the tap come on.

“You weren’t lying,” Gaby said quietly, smiling. “You _are_ good with children.”

“They are so small,” he answered, a touch of a smile in his eyes. “And all they want is to feel safe. Is not so difficult to give them this.” He moved to sit down on the couch again, still rubbing the baby’s back, and Gaby followed.

“She’s so young,” Gaby sighed.

He nodded. “And frightened. We must get her home to her family.”

For a few moments they sat in companionable silence, and Gaby found herself watching Illya’s face. Looking down upon the infant on his shoulder, he had a softness in his expression she hadn’t seen before – a kind of peace and contentment he rarely seemed to achieve. So much always seemed to be weighing on him, but now he looked… serene.

“Did you ever want to be a father, Illya?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. “I have never believed it likely. KGB lifestyle does not especially suit raising a family.” He adjusted the little girl’s position slightly. “But in perfect world, I would like to be. I would like to… do well by my family.” _Unlike his own parents_ , was the unspoken comparison. “To be a father would mean very much to me.”

His answer tugged so hard at Gaby’s heartstrings that she nearly leaned into him, but she restrained herself, instead just laying a hand on his right arm for a moment. “I think you would be a very good father,” she told him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, not meeting her eye. The baby’s tiny fists had loosened from his sweater and he shifted to lower her down until she laid in one arm, cradled against the warmth of his chest. The hand he’d been rubbing her back with drifted towards her tiny face, and with one fingertip he traced his way around her cheek and chin.

“Illya,” Gaby said softly, and he turned to face her, finally. She swallowed and told him, “You deserve your perfect world.”


	34. "I might never get another chance to say this."

“I might never get another chance to say this,” Solo said seriously, rubbing his broken arm with his good hand. He glanced down, licking his lips, and Gaby furrowed her brow, absolutely no idea what could possibly be coming next. He rarely grew so sombre. Looking back up at her, eyes wide, he finally continued, “…But Peril is actually right, this time.”

Illya didn’t even have time to react to the insult before Gaby rolled her eyes and kicked Solo in the shin.

“Hey! _Hey!_ ” Solo cried in dismay, dancing out of the way of a second kick. “Come on, this is uncalled for! Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to kick a man when he’s already down?”

“Actually,” she told him, “I was taught that another swift blow or two will _keep_ him down, just where you want him.” Still poised to kick again if he came near, she added, “You’re being a jackass.”

“What!” Solo put a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. “Gabriela Teller, you _wound_ me!”

Illya held out a hand in front of Gaby, trying to calm her. “Chop Shop Girl, please, I do not need you to defend me from Cowboy’s cheap jabs,” he insisted.

Solo paused, knowing exactly how that would go – and, predictably, Gaby whirled round on the Russian. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you prefer it when I take his side?” she demanded.

“No, I did not mean– I only–” Illya stopped and frowned deeply at her, irritated now. “Do not turn this around on me. _You_ are clearly the one feeling contrary today.”

As they quibbled, Solo stood back and watched for a second, feeling a light bulb come to life in his head. God, these two and all of their actual, real _feelings_ – she was growing protective! Of _Illya_ , of all people! What a backwards notion, their tiny German ballerina-turned-mechanic-turned-spy trying to defend seasoned KGB agent Illya Kuryakin, the human equivalent of the Berlin Wall itself.  It was cute, in a hilarious and incomprehensible kind of way.

God, he couldn’t believe he was actually getting _invested_ in all of this. The way they were bickering they may as well be married already – that or he ought to be giving them some privacy as soon as humanly possible, he realised, noting the intense gaze his partners were sharing.

“Don’t I get to finish explaining _why_ Peril is right?” Solo finally asked, stepping forward slightly. As entertaining as all of this was, it wasn’t all that productive.

“Shut up,” Illya snapped, barely glancing at him.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Gaby added, pointing at him before returning her attention to Illya.

Solo pursed his lips and nodded, understanding. This was going to take some time.


	35. "Do you regret it?"

“Some days I could just about _shoot_ that man,” Gaby grumbled, kicking the corner of her kitchen table after getting off the phone with Waverly.

“If it is any comfort, I am sure the feeling is often mutual,” Illya responded. She stalked back to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room in order to toss him a dirty look, and he smiled half-apologetically. “You know, I have had many days when I might have been happy to shoot Oleg,” he supplied, as a more genuine comfort.

She sighed, crossing to the sofa and lying down with her head in his lap. “But you don’t even _like_ Oleg,” she pointed out.

“No, perhaps you are correct.” He nodded, gently stroking her hair. “But I think this is nature of any relationship in a hierarchy. No one can have perfect relationship with his superior officer.”

She watched him for a moment, taking in the thoughtful expression that she knew meant he was remembering the past. “I suppose I should be grateful,” she sighed after a short pause. “Waverly and I get on quite well. It could certainly be worse.”

“Yes.” He nodded again. “Based on my experience, Waverly is very good commander to have. I have seen far worse.”

“I know.” She reached up to gently trace his jaw. “They were hard on you.”

“At times,” Illya conceded, staring into the space in the middle of her living room. “But it made me a good agent.” _At the cost of so much else_ , she thought, and she knew he knew it too.

“Do you regret it?” she asked softly, after a moment. “Joining the KGB? Losing your chance for a… a different life?”

For a time he was quiet. Then he said, “I was already broken when I arrived. You know this. My father’s actions, the events of my childhood… I was scarred and searching for meaning.” Still he combed his fingers through her hair, almost absently. “By joining I lost the few ties I had – my mother, especially. I did not know what that loss would do to me. And then, systematically, I was stripped of my joy, my love, my compassion… My humanity. I was broken in like horse, made miserable, turned into something no man should ever be. I was trained to be ruthless, to place Russia above all other things. I have done many things for KGB that I can never forget or take back or make amends for.” He paused again. “I have killed people who had families of their own at home. I have sacrificed the needs, even the lives of a few in order to protect the many. I have made choices in an instant that a good man should have to labour and suffer over for days.”

Gaby looked up at him, this man she adored, and felt her eyes grow wet and prickly for his pain. She knew he’d been through a great deal – things that he had already told her about, things he might tell her one day, things he never would. And she wished she could lift that weight from his heart, could change the world so he had never been made to carry it. “Illya…”

Finally he dragged his gaze back down to her face, his free hand finding one of hers and squeezing tightly. “KGB made me into machine. Into weapon. This will always have its impact on me. But if I hadn’t joined, how would I ever have met the love of my life?” His fingers left her hair long enough for him to thumb a tear away from the corner of her eye, then returned to their previous occupation. “If not for KGB, I could never have been granted the blessing of falling in love with a woman who is _fierce_ and _beautiful_ and _clever_ and _loving_ and broke through everything KGB did to me in first place. Woman who reminded me how to feel human again, who taught me that it was not too late to heal.”

Now she was actually crying, and Illya wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up to sit in his lap properly, leaning into his chest.

“And this is not to mention the blessing of being loved in turn by her,” he added quietly. “The feeling of working with her every day, of doing good with her and saving lives with her and building better future for our children _with her_. I have gone through so much, yes, but today I am luckiest man alive. How could I ever regret a choice that led me to you?”

Another tear rolled down her cheek and she pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to dry it. It was overwhelming, how much he loved her, how he prioritised her over everything else in the world, how he _talked_ about her. “Illya,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level. “Don’t you ever wish anything just for _yourself?_ Don’t you ever just want a simpler life, one where you have not had to endure all of that?”

“Not since the day I met you,” he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (((for the record: yes, I think Illya puts Gaby before everything, makes her the reason that nothing else matters. but no, I don't think it's strictly healthy! I see Illya using this one good thing he's been handed as a coping mechanism of sorts; as a way of convincing _himself_ that nothing he's been through really matters when you consider it all as the path to his eventual happiness. I think sometimes even he knows that it's not the best way to think, and that he has to address and work through his pain in more direct ways, but when he's not up to facing that he tells himself that it all pales in comparison to his feelings for her.)))


	36. "Tell me I'm wrong."

“You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Gaby, please.” Illya gave her a stern look. For all that he adored her, these bratty little moods she got into every so often could drive him up the wall. “Is there nothing more useful you could be doing with your time?”

“You’re just so _stubborn_ ,” she answered, single-minded as ever. “And _proud_. And… _Russian_. God, Illya, I just want you to admit that you enjoy _some_ of the luxuries you get to indulge when you’re away from home – you don’t have to renounce communism. I know you like the fancy desserts and the nice clothes, that’s all.” Crossing her arms, she stood directly in front of him and refused to move. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Illya stared down at her for a long moment, then lowered his brow. “Gaby,” he said again, his voice a warning tone. “Is not so simple.” But she wasn’t budging, so he straightened up and looked her dead in the eye. “Gaby, it is not cake and cashmere sweaters that tempt me about western capitalism. I can enjoy these little luxuries, yes, but I can also live without them. I am willing to make sacrifices for the sake of others.” He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t soften his frown. “It is _you_ who makes all of these things so difficult to resist – the fact that _you_ enjoy these indulgences. I may be happy with no more than I need, but you… you want to enjoy all of these ‘finer things,’ and I am powerless to deny you anything. For you, I want to buy beautiful clothes, luxury cars, rare delicacies. I want to take you to resorts and let you drink expensive liquor and sleep together in silk sheets, because these things would make you happy. And because you are quick to bore and always want to be somewhere new, do something new, I would keep indulging you. Keep finding things to keep you happy. I could become a slave to capitalism, if it was for you. And _this_ is what I find so dangerous.”

His confession had the desired effect – she was dumbstruck, eyebrows high on her face, lips slightly parted in surprise. All she had wanted was a little admission, a concession that sometimes he could crack, faced with temptation. But he had decided that if she was going to be difficult, he’d be difficult in return. He felt a smirk tug at his cheeks and, with some effort, managed to keep a straight face.

Gaby swallowed, seeming to catch her breath. “I’m–” She paused, searching for words. “Illya, I’m in love with you.”

“Good.” He leaned in and stole a kiss, wondering if she understood that she was infinitely harder to resist than anything else he’d ever found outside of Russia.


	37. "Lie to me then."

“Why do you look so sad?” Gaby asked, watching Illya from across the room. He blinked, coming back to himself as if from far away, and tried to put on a smile for her. She didn’t buy it, instead crossing the floor to join him on the sofa and tuck herself into his side. “Tell me.”

He let his arm fall around her shoulders as he gazed down at her, smile growing softer and more genuine, but sadder, too. “I love you,” he said, sounding bittersweet.

She reached up to stroke his cheek. “And I love you,” she told him. “Shouldn’t we be happy?”

“I just…” He glanced away, spreading his fingers and pressing the flat of his hand into her arm. “I worry about whether it will last. Whether it will be _allowed_ to last,” he clarified, meeting her eye again.

Gaby frowned. “I don’t see why anyone but us should have any say in it,” she told him defiantly.

“They should not,” he agreed, and with a small sigh he closed his eyes and leaned his head down against hers. “But they will, I suspect. The truth is that our lives do not belong to us. Or at least, mine does not belong to me.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Lie to me, then,” she finally suggested quietly. “If our lives _did_ belong to us, what would they look like, Illya?”

Now a real smile tugged at the corner of his lips for a moment. “Mm… We would both make it to retirement, I think,” he said after a moment. “At young age – before we lose all of our youth. When I am in my mid-forties, perhaps, and you are in your late thirties. Because our service has been so valuable, yes? They appreciate us enough to allow us to leave on our own terms. We can be married, and have a cottage in Russian countryside. Very lovely and warm, and I will build beautiful furniture for you, and you can work on cars in the garage.”

“What if I don’t want to live in Russia?” she teased. “I’ve come to quite like England.”

Illya huffed. “A summer home in England, then, if you _insist_ ,” he conceded. “By the seaside, I think. Somewhere quiet but not too far from town.” Eyes still shut, he nosed his way into her hair, pulling her a little closer into his arms. “We can live out our days together and happy, travelling and working on hobbies. You can be mechanic, and I can be – carpenter, maybe. We will get a big dog, and a cat, too, to take care of the mice.” He paused, breath held, and then finally added, “Maybe we will even be lucky enough to have children. Our own, or– or perhaps we might adopt, if we are too late for our own. And we can live long lives and be in love with each other, in the Russian countryside and on the English beaches, and be happy for all our years, even if Cowboy won’t stop visiting us without calling first.”

Gaby fought down the twist of joy in her stomach, pretending not to be overwhelmed with fondness at Illya’s sweet, modest daydream for them. It wasn’t anything outrageous – just a quiet life together with pets and children and love. She reached for his face again.

“I told you to lie, Illya,” she murmured, smiling.


	38. "You've thought about this, haven't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is another one of my favourites (:

“If Waverly doesn’t call me back to tell me where Illya is in the next hour, I will kill him personally.”

Solo looked up from the documents he was reading, cocking an eyebrow as he watched her pace back and forth across the mildewed basement serving as their temporary hideout. “You can sit, Gaby. Everything will be _fine_. Besides, if you don’t ease up a little, the boss is going to _know_ the two of you have something going on.” Truth be told, he was anxious to hear back as well, but there was no use in Gaby worrying herself into a murderous temper. He was better off trying to lighten the mood a little.

She tossed him a sharp look, and he realised he might be too late to stave off her violent impulses. “He already _knows_ ,” she snapped, though Solo didn’t think she actually knew that for certain. After all, they were still careful. “It doesn’t matter. He won’t say a word – he can’t lose us.”

“But if he figured out, surely someone else could, as well.” He didn’t mean to stoke the fire, but it was hard not to say anything. As much as he teased, he cared that his partners were both safe and happy, and their jobs were stable. He didn’t want them found out any more than they did, which was why he so often went out of his way to make sure their asses were covered. “I mean, yes, he knows us best and deals with us the most – but we’re spies, Gabs, and so are many of our colleagues.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she told him, shrugging and turning on her heel. She was going to wear a path into the cement floor. “Least of all right now.”

“How can you say it doesn’t matter?” he asked, spreading his hands. Normally he liked Gaby’s recklessness, but that seemed a little cavalier even for his taste. “You _know_ how short a leash the KGB has Peril on. They’re just _waiting_ for a reason to yank him back home. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, my dear, but you would _definitely_ be a reason.”

She glowered at him again, just for a second, then huffed impatiently. “Doesn’t _matter_ ,” she repeated. “Like you said, we’re _spies_. International spies, with high-priority, high-risk cases.”

“Yes?” he agreed with a puzzled wrinkle of his brows. “Do you think that means they won’t call him back to Moscow? Because–”

“ _No_ ,” Gaby interrupted. “It means we could die at any moment.” He didn’t have time to ask what she meant by that before she powered on. “There could be an explosion, a fire, anything, and Illya would be gone like _that_.” She snapped her fingers. “They’d never find his body. The KGB would send his mother a medal and disappear from their involvement with UNCLE. And they’d send you and I back out into the field before long, you know, because the world doesn’t wait for grief, but I’d be so rocked by it still that my judgment would be compromised. You, always the strong one, would try to keep me in line, but we both know I’ve always been inclined to act before I think. At some point I’d charge into the line of fire without checking first, and before you could stop me I’d be shot. Several times, most likely. You’d keep it together, make it through the fight, just barely – but by the time you got to me I’d be gone. So damaged by the crossfire I’m barely recognizable – you’d have to identify me by my ring. It would break your heart to put me in the ground so soon after losing Illya, but you’d stay strong, for our sakes. And you’re not a religious man, I know, nor particularly superstitious – but you might start to be, after losing us both. You might see signs of us every so often. Things that remind you that even though you’ll never see us again, we’re still here. Still with you.” She was staring at him now.

It had taken a while for him to figure out what she was on about. At first he’d thought she was just being morbid, but now he frowned deeply at her, asking quietly, “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have,” she answered. “Do you think I don’t have contingency plans, Napoleon? Do you think I haven’t thought out every angle I can come up with? Do you think I really feel more loyalty to the English government just for promising to get me over the wall – not even accomplishing it! Only promising! – than I do to Illya?”

Solo sat back, absorbing that. Of _course_ she’d thought about it. This was Gaby – reckless, yes, but clever and thorough as well, and a born survivor. “Can I ask one question?” She shrugged one shoulder. “Why do they find your body but not Illya’s?”

“Two missing bodies in a row will seem suspicious, especially if the agents were known to be personally involved,” she explained easily. “After that it’s just a matter of practicality. A five-foot-six brunette should be rather easy to find in just about any morgue and doctor for our purposes. A six-foot-five blond made out of cold stone would be a trickier cadaver to locate, let alone _steal_.”

He nodded, impressed. She really was something, their little German spitfire.

Before either of them could say any more, the cellar door crashed open and someone came heavily down the stairs, less walking than tumbling upright. They both glanced up in alarm, falling automatically into defensive stances, but it wasn’t an enemy – it was Illya. He was battered, bruised, bleeding, but there was no cold stone to be seen – only warm, soft blue eyes as he met Gaby’s gaze.

“I told you I’d come back,” he coughed with a smile.

“ _Illya,_ ” Gaby breathed, throwing her arms around him.


	39. "We need to talk about what happened last night."

Gaby was sitting up in bed and stretching when Illya returned from the shower, a plush hotel towel wrapped around his waist. She made no secret of the way she admired the view as he came to sit down next to her, and he frowned. “We need to talk about what happened last night,” he told her seriously.

“Mm.” She rolled her shoulders and ran a hand through her hair. “Do you mean the mission, or the sex? Because if you mean the mission, I guess you’re right, but it’s boring and I don’t _want_ to talk about it.” His frown deepened, and she offered an innocent, sleepy smile. “But if you mean the sex, well – I really would have thought it spoke for itself, but please. I would be glad to discuss it if that’s what you want to do right now. Was there something you particularly enjoyed and wanted to explore further, perhaps…?”

Illya’s face was reddening and Gaby reveled in it. It was early enough in their relationship that she could still very easily embarrass him when she wanted to, though he had nothing to be embarrassed about, in her opinion. When he let himself succumb to the mood, he was typically very confident and _very_ effective.

“I meant the _job_ ,” he answered belatedly, looking away. She thrilled at the way the flush spread down to his neck. “We need to go over what happened so that we can avoid that kind of mess in the future.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she responded, scooting a little closer to him. “I think it’s kind of fun making a mess with you.”

“Gaby…” Illya frowned. “We have things to _do_.”

“Yes, exactly,” she agreed, nodding. “After all, we only have an hour until they start serving breakfast.” Raising her eyebrows, she hooked a finger in the edge of his towel. He swallowed hard. They were also still early enough in their relationship for him to be almost completely weak to her temptations, and she enjoyed that just as much as his embarrassment.

“Gaby,” he repeated, a little strained. “Focus. Last night.”

“The sex, yes,” she answered, nodding, but her eyes were down as she untucked the corner of the towel and pulled it open. “I quite enjoyed it, didn’t you?” Face still lowered, she glanced up at him through her eyelashes.

There was a long pause before finally Illya cursed, something low in Russian she couldn’t quite catch, and then leaned across to kiss her hard.

“Oh! Well, hello!” Gaby gasped in exaggerated surprise when she got the chance to catch her breath, but she was grinning broadly as she wrapped her arms around his neck and fell back into the bed, dragging him with her.


	40. "I never stood a chance, did I?"

He was curled around her in the bed, legs tangled and her back flush to his chest. Gaby was allowing herself to relish the pleasant, drowsy afterglow for as long as it would last, but Illya had his head propped up on one hand with his elbow on the pillow, drawing circles against her bare shoulder and admiring her fondly. She could feel his gaze on her, like always, but it was warm. Like a soft ray of afternoon sunshine.

“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” she hummed. “An East Berlin mechanic and the KGB’s best… we make an odd pair.”

“A year ago,” he answered softly, “I would have said impossible.”

“Luckily, you would have been mistaken.” She shifted, somehow managing to snuggle in even closer. They both reveled in the luxury of lazy skin contact, so rarely afforded.

Lucky, she says. As if that could begin to describe the scope of the fortune that is his, being the object of her affections. He wondered if she’d ever know – if he’d ever find a way to express – how deeply he really felt. How dramatically she had changed _everything_.

“It’s funny,” she sighed. “I’ve heard so much about Illya the ruthless killer, the unstoppable agent, the hard man with no ties except his undying loyalty to the homeland. But with me, you’ve been as soft as a pillow since the very beginning.”

He could only smile, because he knew she was right. He was more than aware – she brought something out in him that he hadn’t seen in so long he thought he’d lost it. That softness developed in less than a day spent in her presence and he didn’t know what to do with it, at first. But he did recognise, quickly, that it was worth paying attention to.

He was more in tune with his emotions that Cowboy gave him credit for.

“I never stood chance, did I?” he asked softly, after a few thoughtful moments.

“What do you mean?” she replied, and he could hear the mild puzzlement in her voice, but it wasn’t enough to make her roll over and face him just yet – not while he was still tracing gentle patterns on her upper arm and the back of her shoulder that way.

“I never had even slimmest chance of resisting you,” he clarified. “Falling in love with you was… most inevitable thing in my life.” He kissed her shoulder. “Somehow.”

“I don’t know about that,” she teased, though the sentiment had her glowing. His hand slid down her arm and joined hers against her stomach, fingers slipping between her own and squeezing. “There are plenty of reasons it might not have happened.”

“But it did,” he pointed out. “Gaby, I… believed this part of me was gone. Fifteen years ago or more. I was barely more than child, last time I felt anything even _like_ what I feel for you.”

Finally she rolled, just far enough to look up into his face. He was still watching her, his eyes so full of love it could still make her heart jump even after all this time. “And what, I unraveled a decade and a half of military and special ops training in a few hours? You openly flirted with me in Rome, and not just under the guise of my fiancé.”

One corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Something like this.”

Gaby squeezed the fingers still woven with her own. “Hard to believe.”

“Yes.” Though they had the sheet pulled over them, his gaze swept down to her toes and back up, taking in the whole of her. “I… respected you immediately. You had skill, determination. You were not cowed by us. That impressed me. And then we went out for evening. I tried to make you feel more comfortable, telling stories about architecture. You were not having it.”

“It wasn’t a very well-thought-out story,” she reminded him, grinning.

“I stand by it.” But his eyes were laughing. “Cowboy made pest of himself. You and he demanded I allow myself to be robbed.” He looked away from her eyes. “Was not easy. I almost lost control. But you stopped me.”

“I really only held your arms,” she answered.

“It was enough, somehow,” he said. “No one has ever been able to calm me that way before. I did not know what could be different about you, this tiny German girl I barely knew. But _something_ was different.”

“You are very cheesy, Illya.”

“I am only honest.” He kissed her shoulder again, a fraction too embarrassed to meet her gaze just yet. “In evening, you got drunk and acted so strange. I did not know what to think. But when you tried to wrestle me I could not deny my attraction to you.”

“Yes, I used that to my advantage,” she admitted.

“ _Attraction_ seemed manageable,” he continued. “Unusual. Unfamiliar, by then. But manageable. It was not until I put you to bed and you captured my hand that I felt something.”

“Felt something?” she prompted, both entertained and enamoured with his embarrassment.

“I would not have called it love, perhaps,” he said, finally meeting her eye again. “It had been too long. But in time I had to recognise it for what it was.”

“And all that KGB training didn’t kick in?” she teased. “You didn’t want to shut me out, forget your feelings, and run?”

“Of course I thought of my training,” he said. “But as I said, I had not felt anything like this for over fifteen years. I believed it was worth holding onto. Just to know that my heart was still beating.”

She rolled again, facing him fully this time, so that she could place a hand on his chest and measure that heartbeat. It pounded against her palm, made anxious by the topic of conversation.

“You are only thing I have wanted,” Illya told her, his voice very soft now, his gaze intense. “In twenty years since my father was taken away. Fifteen since pledging my life to Russia. I have gotten by with no comforts, no temptations, only loyalty to my country. Until I met you.”

“Well,” she answered, just as quietly, “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“I do not know that anyone else could have broken me so neatly open,” he said, drawing her closer with a hand on her hip. “But I cannot be upset. I am alive again, for being in love with you.”

She chewed her lip, seemingly overwhelmed. “If it’s any consolation,” she breathed, “Thanks to you, I’m not quite so broken as before. So it was an exchange, I think.”

“I will take it.” With that he rolled her onto her back, unable to resist the urge to hold himself above her and pin her down with kisses. Her hands on his back and his mouth on her skin were the anchors he had always needed.


	41. "I feel like I can't breathe."

Illya didn’t mind the cold; he was quite accustomed to aggressive winters, snow and wind and ice and clouding breath. He was less fond of climbing, though he’d done it a few times before. It just meant getting sweaty inside his gear, which was less than ideal, when even the inside of his nose was frozen. But it was suddenly easier in the company of Gaby and Solo, he found. He couldn’t say he’d ever climbed a mountain with _friends_. (He still wouldn’t, because he was stubborn, but now he _could_ if the mood should take him.)

Solo was good to have along because the man was still insistent upon the food being decent, regardless of where in the world he was. He let spices take up precious space in his bag and actually took the time to make enjoyable meals while they were camping, which benefitted everyone. The last time Illya had climbed a mountain he had eaten almost exclusively KGB-issued protein bars, which did the job, but certainly didn’t taste as good as Solo’s eggs. But it was Gaby’s company that Illya was enjoying more – even if she complained about the cold and the work, she was generally in fairly good spirits, and Illya liked seeing her do new things. Her experience of the world was so limited before UNCLE, and she was capable of a delighted sense of wonder that he himself had never quite managed to access before he was lucky enough to share hers.

It was exactly that that he got to enjoy when he emerged from the tent on their third morning. Gaby was bundled up and standing out on a ledge at the edge of their campsite, staring out over the land below. Though he was tempted to join her immediately, he rounded the tent and wandered away to take his morning leak first. A few minutes later he returned and stood next to her quietly, hands deep in his coat pockets.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” Gaby finally said softly, her gaze still fixed below. The air was clear and they could see all the way down into the valley, where it was still red and relatively mild with the autumn weather. The land simply rolled out into the distance, the next mountain rising up out of it and looking so easy a climb, from this distance. It crossed Illya’s mind that it might be the first time she’d had the opportunity to see so far while her feet were still on the ground.

“Well,” he said, smiling slightly, “the oxygen is somewhat thinner, at this altitude.”

She turned to look at him, finally, her eyes narrowed but a smile on her lips. Illya understood how the view below could sweep her away – it was, undeniably, stunning, and he certainly could appreciate that. But it was probably even _more_ amazing, at least to his eyes, to see the way that all of that affected Gaby. He knew his fondness was probably showing as she turned back to look down again. He also knew that she was probably aware that he was still watching her, now, instead of the world below, but he didn’t really mind.

This would be a hell of a place, he thought idly, to say something. Do something. _Kiss_ her, finally. It was first thing in the morning and his thoughts were still soft with sleep and it was hard not to _want_ to kiss her, when she looked like that. But he wouldn’t get the chance, he knew – Solo was still within spitting distance and as long as that was the case, it wouldn’t be time, not yet. Sometimes Illya resented the American for that, but this morning he was able to accept it as just a simple fact of his life. Perhaps even the will of the universe, since he was still waking up and a little more inclined to accept that as a possibility. This would be an incredible place to tell Gaby he was utterly in love with her, but it wasn’t yet the _right_ place.

As if on cue, Solo rose up from the ground partway around the tent behind them and waved. “Morning, you two,” he called out. “Food’s ready. Come and get it before it freezes.”

“Coming,” Gaby called back, not quite tearing her eyes from the view. After a long moment, she managed to persuade herself to turn around and head up towards the fire. Illya trailed behind her, feeling warm in spite of the chill.


	42. "I'm only here to establish an alibi."

It was still so new, and they so rarely had time to themselves when they could afford to indulge. They stole moments wherever they could, but moments were rarely enough for people who had held themselves back as long as Gaby and Illya had done.

Even though Waverly assigned them covers as fiancés or newlyweds case after case – was the English bastard just toying with them? How much did he know? – they didn’t get as many nights together as one might expect. Their work demanded long hours of dedication, and was tiring besides; whatever time and energy they had left for each other was hardly enough for what they _wanted_ to do together.

Which was why their last night in Seoul was so special. They had wrapped up the mission a day ahead of schedule, due to a stroke of luck and a little ingenuity on Solo’s part – something he surely wouldn’t let them forget anytime soon. It would be a waste of money, Waverly told them over the phone, to move their flights up by just a day, so they may as well take advantage. Solo, adjusting his lapels with a smug little smile, announced that he would be down in the hotel bar if they needed him. Left in blissful solitude, it took no time for Gaby to take up residence in Illya’s lap, both of them smiling too hard as they leaned into each other.

They took their time together, luxuriating in the almost unheard-of opportunity to enjoy each other without any deadlines or imminent threats hanging overhead. They were in the bed, wrapped up in cool cotton sheets between rounds, an hour later when the unmistakable clicking of lockpicks interrupted them. Illya froze in the process of trailing lazy kisses down the back of Gaby’s shoulder, his arm tensing around her middle where he held her against him.

“It’s only me,” Solo called as he let himself in, and while his tone was airy his volume was lower than usual. They couldn’t quite see him at first, out of view of the door between the bedroom and the rest of the suite.

“Cowboy,” Illya responded, his voice low in warning.

Solo crossed the living area to sit down on the couch, catching a glimpse of them in the bed and turning with mock politeness to look the other way. “Carry on with what you were doing,” he said, the grin more than evident on his voice. “I’m only here to establish an alibi.”

Gaby let out a tiny, irritated groan, flopping against her pillow, but Illya didn’t relax in the slightest. “Job is done, Cowboy,” he growled. “You do not need alibi.”

“Oh, not that kind of alibi, my friend,” Solo called over his shoulder, opening up a newspaper. “Do you remember that charming girl I visited with a couple of nights ago? – She’s downstairs, and as it turns out she has a rather possessive streak. I’m just going to hide out here for a little while, so that if she ever finds me and demands to know where I’ve been, we can all honestly say I was with you.”

Gaby lifted her head again, aiming a steely glare at the back of his perfectly-coiffed hair. “Solo.”

“Yes, dear Gaby?” he responded, too innocently.

“If you want to catch the flight home tomorrow, you’d better leave our room _right_ now.”

“Good heavens,” he muttered, folding the paper back up as he got to his feet. “And here I thought I might get some _sympathy_ from my _friends_. If that woman kills me, my blood will be on your hands. I just hope the two of you know that.”

“We are not friends,” Illya called out as Solo headed for the door.

“I’ll lock up behind me,” he answered. “Since evidently I care more for your safety than you do for mine.” And then he was gone.


	43. "Are you drunk?"

Solo had seen Gaby drunk. She got drunk all the time – maybe even too often. If he were entirely honest (which of course, he never was), all those times he’d stolen the contents of the entire bar cart from her hotel room before she even went to bed the first night had only ever been half about getting on her nerves. That said, she was generally an _appealing_ drunk, in his eyes, so as long as she seemed to have things under control, he mostly let her be.

He had also seen Illya drunk, though far less often. Once, after a mission that had hit him far too close to home; the second time, when the two of them were trying desperately to ease their minds the night after Gaby had an emergency operation for a perforated lung. The third time, Solo hadn’t actually even _seen_ it, strictly speaking – he’d been listening over the wire hidden in Illya’s suit jacket while Illya went undercover in a high-end American casino run by Eastern-European mobsters. He’d had to drink to sell the cover and gain the mark’s trust, and Solo had been stuck listening in.

What he had never seen was anything like _this_. Illya was stretched out on the floor, smiling widely, his head propped up on a decorative cushion that had previously been on the sofa. Gaby was draped over him, her chin resting on his chest, a throw blanket tossed over their legs, chattering softly in German about cars and engines and how to fix them while Illya played with the ends of her hair.

“Are you drunk?” Solo blurted, blinking at the puzzling scene in front of him.

Gaby looked up at him and smiled, unfolding one hand from beneath her chin to touch the empty crystal tumbler sitting on the carpet by Illya’s shoulder. Illya, in turn, tipped his head back and peered upside-down at Solo, his expression uncharacteristically open and relaxed.

“We have been drinking,” the Russian answered slowly, as if to deny that they were truly _drunk_ at this point. Solo raised his eyebrows.

“What are you… what _is_ this?” Solo finally asked, gesturing vaguely at them. He was rarely rendered speechless, but he was genuinely lost this time. He’d never seen them this way, both wholly relaxed and cheerful and lying on the floor.

“Mission is over, Cowboy,” Illya said, his shoulders not moving but his tone somehow suggesting a shrug. “We are celebrating.”

“I… all right,” Solo agreed after a second, dropping into the armchair nearby. “Down there, though?”

Gaby actually did shrug. “These things just happen sometimes,” she told him casually. “Why, what are _you_ doing?”

“Having less fun than you two, evidently,” Solo said, feeling – oddly enough – left out somehow. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to be laying on the carpet with them, he supposed, as that he would have been quite happy to join them for a celebratory drink or three if they’d asked. Then again, this was Gaby and Illya. They were always going to do things without him, and he was quite content with that, so long as they didn’t squeeze him out entirely. “I was _going_ to ask about your reports, get a clear idea of what exactly happened after we all split up last night, but perhaps now is not the time.”

“Perhaps not,” Illya agreed with a nod. Solo glanced around and spotted the empty vodka bottle on the coffee table. How much liquor did it actually take for a man Illya’s size to get that drunk, he wondered? Because Gaby could easily have downed half that bottle herself.

“It’s nice, to celebrate in the evening,” Gaby decided, settling back in against Illya’s chest. “Rather than get on a plane right away. I like having time to relax between things.”

Illya hummed his agreement, eyes drifting contentedly closed, and Solo watched as Illya’s hands settled in against the small of Gaby’s back. They both looked quite comfortable where they were.

“Well, I suppose it’s awfully late, anyway,” he finally said, pushing up out of the chair again. “I think I’ll just get back to my report tomorrow. Pack it in early, maybe get a decent night’s sleep, for once. Good night, you two. Sweet dreams and so on.”

“Sleep well, Napoleon,” Gaby called after him as he headed out.

“Cowboy,” Illya added, by way of his own goodnight.

Solo glanced back over his shoulder again before going out the door. Gaby looked very pleased with her position, and Illya had honestly never looked so peaceful. It was a pleasant sight, even if it _was_ a strange one.


	44. "I still remember the way you taste."

If they’d been only ten more minutes getting back to the safehouse, Illya would probably have been gone, bundled into a van and taken who knows where. But the traffic had been unexpectedly light and they arrived just in time to catch the would-be kidnappers trying to lug Illya’s massive body out of the sitting room. Solo was off like a shot after them, tearing out of the little house and into the street. Gaby, well aware that she’d be no help in the chase – all the spunk in the world couldn’t make up for how much shorter her legs were than Solo’s, or either of the masked kidnappers’ – dropped to her knees at Illya’s side, checking him for damage. The needle mark in his neck was entirely too obvious, and from the looks of it he had hit his head on the way down – probably on the now-overturned coffee table – but he seemed otherwise in working order. Diving for Solo’s first-aid kit, she had the smelling salts out in moments, wafting them under Illya’s nose.

It took a little time for him to come to, but eventually she had him conscious again. Tucking a couch cushion under his head, she began to check for signs of a concussion. She peered into his eyes and asked, “Illya, what year is it?”

“ _1964_ ,” he answered, slowly, in Russian. “ _Nyet… 1965. Yanvar._ ”

It was barely past New Years’, so she could hardly blame him for the confusion there. “Good. And you know who I am?” she continued.

“ _Moyo solnyshko_ ,” he answered, smiling groggily.

Part of her wanted to be charmed, because it was still rare for him to be so openly and unabashedly affectionate, but there were more pressing matters. “My name, Illya.”

“Gaby Teller,” he finally told her, nodding. “Should be, Gaby _Kuryakin_. Nice sound, _da?_ ”

She took a deep breath, actively trying now not to smile. She ought to focus on the task at hand. “What do you remember from before you passed out, Illya?”

“Mm… I should have heard him.” He waved a hand towards his neck, then dropped it back to the floor. “Came from behind. I was distracted… you are bad for me.” Now he waved a finger at her in a drowsy attempt at admonishment. “So distracting… make me bad spy…”

“Focus, Illya,” Gaby reminded him, stroking his cheek as his gaze wandered away. “What do you remember? Anything else?”

He blinked and looked at her again, raising his eyebrows. “I remember,” he started, smiling broadly, “how you taste.” He reached up with both hands and circled her arms, dragging her down on top of him; taken by surprise, she laughed. She was trying so hard to be serious and he was making it very difficult, kissing her like that.

“I suppose this means you didn’t get anything useful out of him,” Napoleon said, resigned, as he re-entered the room. He sighed heavily, so put-upon. “The Peril’s such a terrible _flirt_ when he’s drugged.”


	45. "How much of that did you hear?"

When Solo slipped into Gaby and Illya’s room at the motel, right next to his, he looked so self-satisfied that she wanted to hit him just on principle. Illya, for his part, disappeared immediately, stepping out the back door onto the tiny balcony the moment their front door opened.

“Look at you,” Gaby muttered as Solo sat down across from her, picking up the newspaper and beginning to flip through it with exaggerated casualness. “The CIA should have let you rot in prison, frankly.”

“You know how they hate to waste talent, though,” he answered with a grin. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Oh we heard _all_ of it, thank you,” she answered drily. “Exactly as you intended, I imagine.”

His grin widened. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

“I think you _help yourself_ a little too often,” Gaby said archly, looking back down at her book. “You have no idea how uncomfortable Illya gets, you know that?”

“Oh, come on,” he argued, leaning forward. “I think I have _some_ idea. The Peril’s a prude. We both know it.”

Glancing up again, she pursed her lips for a long moment. Finally, she said simply, “You really _don’t_ know.”

Solo raised his eyebrows, curious about that pregnant pause. “Apparently there’s _something_ I don’t know,” he observed. “Keeping secrets, are we, Gabs?”

“Of course not.” Her gaze left his once again. “It’s just that, well… what you’re doing in _particular_ bothers him. He feels strongly that it doesn’t need to be... shared quite so _publicly. Advertised,_ perhaps. ‘Is nobody else’s business, what Cowboy does in his bedroom,’ I believe were his exact words. And then something about the poor woman’s reputation.”

“He’s so old-fashioned,” Solo snorted, sitting back again. “Hasn’t he heard it’s the sixties? Over in America everyone’s been preaching ‘free love.’ Rather appealing, in my opinion.”

“Not _that_ old-fashioned,” she laughed back. “I may not be as tightly-wound as he is, but I don’t think I need to hear _every_ detail of your love life in quite such remarkable detail. And he makes some compelling points about how much respect you may or may not offer to all of these one-night stands of yours.”

“Come now. If you’re implying I’m anything less than a perfect gentleman, I _implore_ you to take a second look.”

“All I’m saying is,” Gaby told him, “There’s something to be said for a little romance.”

“I’m a sight more romantic than _he_ is!” he defended, throwing a hand in the direction of the balcony. She gave him a skeptical look, but said nothing. Solo frowned and leaned in again. “Now, listen,” he said in a low voice. “As of the last time we spoke of this, you weren’t in much of a position to remark on the Peril’s proclivity for romance, so either there _is_ something you haven’t told me, or you’re just being unfair.”

“I believe we were discussing _you_ ,” she commented, her attention back on the book in her lap.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I hope you realise how long you’re going to have to put up with me,” he finally warned. “Deny and deflect all you like, but time is on my side, Miss Teller.”

Gaby was rescued from having to respond to that by the re-entry of a deeply frowning Illya. “Cowboy, your… _date_ ,” he managed, the word coming out rather strangled, “seems to be leaving. You should see her out, at _very_ least.”

“Heavens, is she awake already?” Solo asked, surprised. He got to his feet. “Well, yes, you’re right. I’ll take her home safely. Thank you, Peril.” He winked at Gaby before stepping out, and she rolled her eyes.

Once he was gone, Illya shook his head and made a disgusted sound. “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Gaby responded, nodding.

With a sigh, Illya sat down in the chair next to her – not the one Solo had just occupied – and placed two drinks on the table. She reached for hers with a wordless nod of thanks, and they each took a long sip. “One of these days, perhaps he should be made to put up with the same kind of nonsense to which he subjects everyone else,” Illya finally added.

Gaby paused and glanced up, but he wasn’t looking at her any more.


	46. "What happens if I do this?"

Illya smiled cheerfully up at her, lying on his back and making no move to escape as she hovered over him on her hands and knees. For her part, Gaby had a deep, thoughtful frown on her face as she considered him, perhaps just a little perturbed.

“You won’t find it,” he told her pleasantly, stretching his arms upward before tucking his hands behind his head. “It does not exist.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said immediately, though of course, she had already made that quite clear. “Everybody has one.”

“You have enough for us both,” he answered, amused.

“This doesn’t mean you don’t have one.”

Grinning, Illya closed his eyes and settled further back into the mattress, more than content to let her try. All this had happened just because he’d been tickling her again – but how was he supposed to resist, when she had so many delightful ticklish spots? How could he _not_ press his fingers into her side, or dance them feather-light over the soles of her feet, the small of her back, the skin beneath her bellybutton? The way she laughed and squirmed was far too enticing. But now, she was on a quest to find _his_ ticklish spot, regardless of how many times he told her he didn’t have one.

“What happens if I do this?” she tried, and he felt her fingers ghost across his abs where she’d already pushed up his undershirt.

“Come, Gaby,” he chided, laughing. “Too obvious.”

“Worth a try,” she muttered. He felt the mattress move with her shifting weight over top of him. “What about _this?_ ” Now she was at the curve where his shoulder met his neck.

“Not ticklish, no,” he reported.

Gaby grumbled. She’d been at this for fifteen minutes, probably, including the five she’d spent sitting back just _contemplating_ him. She had even made him roll over for a while so she could try things like the backs of his knees and the dip between his shoulder blades. “I’m not giving up, you know,” she warned him.

“I know,” he answered. “Giving up is not in your nature. I appreciate this about you. Nonetheless, it is a pointless mission.”

“That’s what _you_ think.” She was moving downwards, towards his legs again. Automatically, he tensed a little when she planted her hands on his thighs. “But I’m quite certain I’ll manage to find _something_.” Illya opened his eyes and raised his head to look at her – the tone of her voice suggested she might have moved on from her search for ticklish spots, at least for the time being. The look in her eyes confirmed it.


	47. "Why are you whispering?"

“Shh! – God, Peril – keep it _down,_ would you?”

Illya, certainly not being any louder than he normally was – and that wasn’t terribly loud, really – paused, his jacket hanging halfway down his arms. “Why are you whispering?” he murmured, frowning in Solo’s direction.

“Gaby’s finally asleep,” Solo hissed back. “Given that she was awake for nearly forty hours straight, I’d rather keep it that way for as long as I can.”

Illya softened instantly. “Of course.” They’d both tried everything they could, the night before, but she’d been in quite a state. It was the first time she’d had to actually put a bullet in somebody, and even if it was in self-defence, it had taken a toll on her psyche. The men had both talked to her – together, as well as privately, in turns – about how they’d worked through that first time themselves. Illya didn’t know what Solo had said to her, but he himself had held her and let her cry while she recalled watching the lights in a stranger’s eyes go out. He hadn’t cried, his first time, but he wished that he had – and that he’d had someone to hold him close as he did.

When he’d gone out that morning, she was still awake, and Solo had been debating the ethics of drugging her. Gaby had left the inn with Illya, actually, splitting off from him outside the front door, saying she was going to take a walk of the grounds to hopefully clear her head. Knowing her tendency to slip away from them when she was upset, Illya hadn’t at all assumed she’d be asleep or even _there_ when he got back. But he knew he had a tracker in the pocket of her trousers, if he needed it.

“When did she finally manage to calm down?” Illya asked, as he and Solo crossed the room until they were as far from Gaby’s bed as they could get.

“An hour and a half ago? Maybe two,” Solo answered, glancing briefly in the direction of the bedroom. “She was out for a few hours – I’m not sure exactly, but long enough for me to get a fair amount of work done – and when she came back she was… still rattled, but also clearly exhausted. She was finally hungry, too, so I rung up room service and got us some lunch. After we ate she sat down and listened to the radio for a while, and then finally I persuaded her to go climb into bed, when it looked like she might doze off on the couch. I think she passed out shortly after.”

“Good,” Illya said with a nod. “She needs it. And I feel better knowing she is finally resting.”

“Me too.” Solo passed a hand over his hair. “I assume your job went well, today?”

Illya nodded again. “Nothing remarkable about it.” He was looking towards Gaby’s room, unable to help himself.

Solo watched his Russian partner quietly for a second or two before smiling slightly and giving a little sigh. “I haven’t checked on her since I was sure she was asleep. Why don’t you go make sure she’s all right, and I’ll get back to my work over here.” He gestured at the desk where he’d been labouring all day over a complex forgery.

“Mm.” Illya knew that Solo was giving him this for emotional reasons, rather than practical, but he feigned professional concern nonetheless. Draping his jacket over the back of a chair and leaving his cap in the seat, he even removed his shoes to further soften his step before carefully approaching the bedroom door. As quietly as he could, he turned the knob and slipped through.

The curtains were pulled, but it only took a second for his eyes to adjust to the low light so that he could make out Gaby’s form on the bed. She was turned away from him, but from her even breathing he could tell she was still sleeping – and something uncoiled in his chest. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, not quite surprised to realise how worried he’d been.

He knew he should go back, make some notes for his report, but he wanted to savour this relief for a moment or two longer. He was tired, himself, both from concern and from spending half the night up with her. After a tiny hesitation, he crept across the room to sit down in the chair near her bed. Even with her back to him, he found a kind of peace in the soft, silent up-and-down of her rib cage.

Illya was in too deep, and he knew it. He’d known it for a long time, now – there was really no denying any of it, not rationally – but still, moments like these made it stand out to him. He worried about her health, both physical and emotional; obviously this whole ordeal was having an effect on both. And he was so profoundly _relieved_ to see her resting peacefully. So utterly content just to sit there while she slept. He was so grateful, and so proud of her, for defending herself – and yet also so heartbroken, to know that she had had to take a life and it hurt her so much. He always did his best to protect her, even when she objected. This was why. But at least she was safe and unharmed; at least she was still here with him. At least she was sleeping.

He loved her. Undeniably, and unconditionally. And when she woke up he would be here for her, in whatever way she needed, and he wouldn’t breathe a word of his own feelings. But for now, he would steal a few quiet moments to himself, just to love her.


	48. "You make me want things I can't have."

Gaby wandered out onto the balcony after her shower, draping her arms over Illya’s shoulders where he sat with a drink in hand. Resting her chin next to his left ear, she followed his line of sight out across the city, the setting sun glinting off hundreds of rooftops.

“It’s a good view,” she observed softly.

“Mm.” He didn’t move except to lift one hand up to one of hers, taking hold of her fingers and rubbing them fondly. “I only wish we had more time to enjoy it.”

She considered that for a moment. It was an interesting sentiment from Illya, who normally worked so hard to remain unattached to anything that wasn’t his work. Or her. “We’ll come back one day, then,” she told him. “Enjoy it at our leisure. Maybe even explore. I’m sure the city is just as interesting from the ground as it is from here.” She smiled a little, teasing.

But Illya sighed. “A pleasant daydream.”

She paused at that, then withdrew so that she could step around in front of him. The wicker armchair was big enough that there was just enough space for her to tuck her knees in on either side of him, to straddle his lap and come in close, place her hands on his chest. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Smiling ruefully, he put his drink down on the small table next to him and reached up to cup her cheek gently. She leaned into his hand, holding his gaze, willing him to talk to her. “Gaby…” He hesitated, licked his lips, apparently thinking. Then he said simply, “You make me want things I cannot have.”

“What do you mean?” she pressed.

“To go exploring in distant cities with you,” he answered. “To take time for ourselves – more than a moment or an evening. To experience the world not as spy, but as… as tourist. As man, with his woman.”

“Of course you can have that,” she told him, her hands slipping up to his neck. Her fingers looked so small on his body.

“No, I cannot,” he disagreed, shaking his head, though he seemed charmed that she thought so. “There is no way out, for man like me. I belong to KGB until I am no longer useful, and they put me down. Or else until I die on the job. They will never let me go.”

“Then take yourself,” Gaby said, still looking him in the eye. “I’m not talking about retiring, Illya, I’m talking about _leaving_. Run away with me. We have the skills to get away and to take care of ourselves – we could go anywhere in the world. Together we could make it. Any day. You could tell me any moment that you needed out and we could disappear.”

His smile faded as she spoke – she was serious. He hadn’t expected that. It was hard to know what to say to such a declaration. “Would this… be enough for you?” he asked slowly. “Could you leave behind this life you have pulled together in London? Run away from everything second time?”

“If I had you?” she clarified. “Of course it would be enough. And of course I could do it. I’m a self-serving opportunist, _Liebling_. I only joined MI5 to get out of East Berlin; I have no loyalty to them.”

That wasn’t really true, he knew – at least, not quite. She wasn’t a ‘self-serving opportunist,’ exactly. Doing what you had to do to survive, seizing every opportunity in order to claw your way up from the bottom: that was different. But there was no point in arguing that with her, especially not right now. “But you would miss Cowboy, yes? Even Waverly, perhaps?” His eyebrows knitted with concern at the thought of her dropping everything for him that way.

“Not enough to stop me,” Gaby said evenly. “If that was the only way to be with you. Or if it was what you needed to be happy. And I think,” she added, lowering her voice, “that they would understand that.”

Illya felt strangely winded. He hadn’t realised that she felt that way – that she was so prepared to give everything up for him, that she would propose their escape so casually and without buildup. And more importantly, he discovered that he felt exactly the same way. He had refused to allow himself to so much as consider what would happen if he had to choose between his work and Gaby, because he didn’t want to face even the _thought_ of how to make that decision, of the consequences either option would bring. But now that she had laid her own opinion out for him, he realised with perfect clarity that he was just as willing to let everything else go if it came down to it. As long as he still had Gaby, he could survive any other loss.

His vision growing blurry, he slid one hand up from her jaw into her hair and pressed the other flat against her back, pulling her into him so that he could kiss her. He didn’t know how else to respond. She kissed him back, gripping at his collar so fiercely that he felt she understood his meaning.

Sometimes he wished he could melt right into her skin, merge with her completely so that they could be even closer together than they already were.

Even when they broke apart he held her flush against him, tucking his face down into her hair and her neck, and she wrapped her arms around his own neck and let him hold her. “ _I love you,_ ” he murmured in Russian, and then again in English, and then German, and then in English again. It was all he could think of.


	49. "I don't want to screw this up."

It had been weeks, now, since Illya and Gaby had finally gotten everything out in the clear and found their way into one another’s beds. And Illya had been so _careful_ in that time. At first Gaby thought it was just his nerves – his strange belief that at some point he’d wake up and learn it had all been a dream, or that one day she’d suddenly realise she’d made a mistake and walk out on him. But it had been a while now and he still seemed to be walking on eggshells – going out of his way to stay controlled and contained in a way that he didn’t normally when they were together. It was like everything he did and said was weighed, calculated, considered. He had always had an air of control and carefulness around him, but not like this.

“What’s wrong?” she finally asked him one evening, her legs draped across his lap. He glanced up from his book in surprise and mild confusion, and she tipped her head, watching him. With a small, amused smile, she finally clarified, “You’ve been… strange, these last few weeks. Like you’re always being so careful around me, in a way you weren’t before.”

“I have always been careful with you,” he answered, resting a hand on her bare ankle.

“Not quite like this,” she told him. “Before, you never hesitated to butt heads with me. To disagree, to argue, to give opinions. You let yourself be impulsive with me. Now, it’s like everything you do or say is so carefully thought out ahead of time.”

Now Illya paused, and she saw in his eyes the way he considered deflecting. Then, finally, he admitted softly, “I do not want to… to screw this up.” An Americanism she had picked up from Napoleon, and Illya had finally gleaned from her.

Gaby’s smile softened, and she reached out to touch him – he leaned closer so that she could cup his cheek for a moment. “Illya, I fell in love with you for what you _are_ ,” she assured him as he turned to kiss her palm. “For everything I know you to be. You can’t screw anything up as long as you’re always being honest with me.”

He stopped again, his own expression growing gentle and fond. She watched him think for a moment, and she reflected that he was quite accustomed to people – employers, really – always wanting a particular _version_ of him for their purposes. She wanted him _whole_ : the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, the loving and the broken. But perhaps she needed to tell him as much explicitly, in order for him to believe it.

“I love every part of you,” she murmured. “I want to see everything, even when it’s not pretty. I want _you_ , Illya, the whole entire man, for better or worse.”

Illya let out a long, slow breath before grabbing her legs and pulling her closer until she sat in his lap properly. Nuzzling into her hair, he explained, “I thought perhaps you just wanted my romantic side. The side that – that can flirt with you, that believes you, protects you, makes love to you, wishes to spend every day with you. But maybe… maybe you did not want the other Illya, who fears losing you, and who gets lost inside his own head sometimes, who breaks things – sometimes people – when he loses his temper. The Illya who is damaged and cannot always hide it.”

“Oh, Illya,” she sighed, running her hands through his hair and then wrapping her arms around his neck. “Those are all the _same_ Illya, the complete man. I love you, and I want you, as you are and as you grow.”

“You have me,” he said. He pulled her just a little closer, like he was concerned she might leave. “I am yours.”

“I know you struggle,” Gaby said softly. “I know you aren’t perfect, and I know you’re broken. So am I. I know sometimes you’re even dangerous, and obviously I would never want to be in danger from you. Or for someone we love to be in danger from you.” He looked up at her then, and she could see the heartbreak in his eyes, so she hurried to finish her sentiment. “But I do not believe that I, or anyone else we loved, ever _would_ be in danger from you.” At that he looked even more emotional – more adoring, more in love than ever. Did it really mean so much, to say that she didn’t believe he could ever hurt her?

“I love you,” he murmured, almost dazed. “So much. I only want to be the best version of myself for you.”

“Only if you promise not to hide your flaws,” she said, capturing his face between her hands. “We grow together.”


	50. "People are staring."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before I go, just thought I'd mention that it would be lovely if any tumblr users would drop by my blog @microsuedemouse and share the post I made about this fic! sharing on tumblr has been a huge part of getting my work seen in the last year or so (: the post is findable in my 'TMFU', 'Courtney writes', or 'fic tag' tags. you can also find other ways to help support my work there! if you don't use tumblr but are interested in my non-AO3 work or helping me keep writing, feel free to drop me a line and ask!  
> (also, I might post some extra nuggets and tidbits related to this fic over there in the next while, so you're welcome to keep an eye out for that too!)

They sat together at a weathered and graffitied picnic table in the park, enjoying the afternoon sunshine and a light breeze. If there was one thing Gaby loved most about being anywhere with warm weather, it was getting Illya out of his jackets and turtlenecks and into colourful short-sleeved shirts. He was so uncertain about the summery shades and the lightweight linens and cottons (even if the same patterns and fabrics, in the form of Gaby’s sundresses, always made him melt), but he looked so handsome in them. And she didn’t mind at all getting to see his arms for a change.

Lunch was subs from a sandwich shop Napoleon had recommended, not far away. Gaby had a straw sunhat with a ribbon, picked out for her by an amused Waverly; Illya had his sunglasses and a pair of khakis that fit him in ways Gaby adored. He’d been complaining all morning that he felt out of place here, posing as a carefree tourist – “I stick out like sore thumb.” And it was true that this kind of cover didn’t come naturally to him, and also that he was big and blond and hard to miss in a community mostly populated by slim, olive-skinned people with dark hair. But she thought that when he wasn’t paying attention, he looked absolutely beautiful, and exactly where he ought to be. Besides, they were together, which meant that it wasn’t _so_ hard for him to keep smiling.

He’d propped his sunglasses up on his head when a cloud blew over the sun, leaning in to kiss her. It could easily be explained away as part of their cover, a honeymooning couple exploring the city with thoughts of moving there soon, but really it just seemed like he couldn’t resist. She had a hard time complaining. After they’d both finished their subs, he reached into the small canvas messenger bag he’d been carrying and surprised her with a large chocolate bar. Wondering when he’d managed to buy it without her noticing, she eagerly tore open the wrapper and split the bar in two to share.

For the first time in a while, Illya glanced around the park as they enjoyed the chocolate together. On such a beautiful day it was fairly busy, couples strolling down the path, children playing in the fountain, families picnicking in the grass. There were even a few dogs out fetching sticks for their owners. Gaby felt him tense up a little beside her as he started to think about the mission again.

“People are staring,” he told her softly, surveying the crowds. She had been keeping an eye out, herself, and was quite sure they weren’t. Under the table, she squeezed his knee.

“If they are, Illya, it’s only because of how intensely you look at me,” she responded, putting another square of chocolate into her mouth as she looked up at him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered, feigning total ignorance, and she smiled a little to see that he wasn’t yet worried enough to lose his sense of humour.

“Yes you do,” she argued, rolling her eyes playfully. She felt him scoop her hand up off his leg so that he could hold it, slipping his fingers between hers.

“I cannot help how I look at you,” Illya said, earnestly, and she met his eye again. It was exactly one of those intense looks she’d just mentioned, and even after all this time it still took her breath away a little bit. That such a huge, cold, dangerous man could look at her with such overwhelming tenderness and care and adoration was always amazing to her.

They were interrupted by someone approaching their table, and both looked up at the older woman, curious. “Excuse me,” she said, smiling apologetically. “Well, goodness – I couldn’t help noticing the way he looks at you, darling, and I have to tell you, he’s a keeper.”

Gaby smiled, catching her lower lip between her teeth. She held up his left hand, still clasped in her right, turned to show the ring on his finger. “He’s very much kept,” she answered happily.

The older woman winked at her. “Oh, good, I’m glad to hear it. Now, actually, I originally came over to ask if I might borrow him for a moment? We’ve gotten our kite stuck up in a tree, and we need help from someone a little taller than we are in order to get it down.” When Gaby glanced down, she saw a little girl hiding behind the woman’s skirt.

“A kite rescue, hm?” Illya asked, loosening his grip on Gaby’s hand. “I think I can be of some assistance.” He got to his feet, smiling at the little girl. “Where is this tree that has taken your kite hostage?”

Watching him head for a tree not far away, the old woman and her granddaughter at his side, Gaby beamed as warmth bubbled in her stomach. This particular mission had been making her more eager than ever to replace the rings they were wearing with the real thing.


End file.
